


Growing Pains

by CountNoCount



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Adolescent Sexuality, Age Difference, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bullying, Gender Issues, Homophobia, M/M, Mpreg, Mutants have sex a little differently because they're mutants, Sexual Harrassment, Telepathic Sex, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-08
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-05 01:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 55,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/400308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountNoCount/pseuds/CountNoCount
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Charles's first day of high school, a run-in with physics teacher Mr. Lensherr reveals something that shakes up both their lives. But before Charles can commit to being Mr. Lensherr's lover, he has to get through four years of high school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started working on this for [this prompt](http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/3278.html?thread=4033742) on the kink meme, but it kind of went in another direction. Well, the destination is the same. The journey is a little different.

The first day of Charles Xavier's freshman year of high school, his entire life was ruined, and he didn't even know it until he was called down to the office during sixth period. He sat in the waiting room with the summons that had been delivered to his English class and bounced his knee as he went over every horrible scenario that could have prompted this meeting. He had just settled on the untimely death of his mother by his stepfather's hand and was preparing his own reaction to this senseless tragedy when Principal Worthington stepped out of his office and said, “Charles Xavier?”

Charles entered the principal's office and was surprised to see someone familiar standing off to the side by the filing cabinets: the tallish, slim, stern-faced man who had helped him find his biology class earlier when Charles had gotten confused. Charles waved to him, but the man did not wave back, so Charles turned to Mr. Worthington and asked, puzzled, “Is this about how I was tardy to Biology? It's just, I didn't know you had to go through 220A to get to 221B, so—”

“No, no,” Mr. Worthington said with a smile. “Nothing like that. Go ahead and have a seat.” Charles sat down in one of the chairs in front of Mr. Worthington's desk. Mr. Worthington sat across from him, and spread his wings out casually as soon as he was comfortable. Charles couldn't help but stare a little. “Having a good first day, Charles? Aside from getting a little lost on the way to Biology, that is.”

“Yeah,” Charles said. “Um, it's been good.”

“Glad to hear it.” Mr. Worthington smiled again, a warm, soothing smile. “And, of course, you've already met our own Mr. Lensherr.” He nodded to the man standing in front of the filing cabinets.

Charles glanced at Mr. Lensherr again. Still no smile from him. “Uh-huh. He helped me when I was lost.”

“Yes.” Mr. Worthington looked down at his desk and coughed. “Yes. Well... good.” He picked up a pen and tapped it against his blotter. “Charles, this may seem like an a rather strange change of subject, but please bear with me.”

“Okay,” Charles said, wiping his palms on his corduroy pants.

“Your medical forms say that you're an omega?” Mr. Lensherr snorted, and Charles blushed. Mr. Worthington gave Mr. Lensherr a warning look, then turned back to Charles. “Please don't feel you have to be ashamed or embarrassed. We're all mutants here, and of course our conversation is completely confidential.”

Charles wasn't entirely certain what to say, so he just nodded. When Mr. Worthington didn't go on, he ventured a small, “I am.”

“And they've... explained things to you, haven't they? At least the basics?” Mr. Worthington now looked as though he were moving into less comfortable territory, so Charles took pity on him and nodded again. “Good. Very good. So you know, of course, that there are some mutants who are alphas. Male alphas aren't any different from human men, except that they pursue omegas almost exclusively...” Here, Mr. Worthington began to falter, and glanced over at Mr. Lensherr, who sighed loudly.

“I smelled you out. You're mine,” Mr Lensherr growled. He sighed again when Charles's eyes went wide and paused to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Or you're going to be. Not now, but soon. Someday. Shit.” Mr. Lensherr turned his back on Charles and stalked toward the door, giving one of the filing cabinets a kick as he passed. The loud, reverberating clang made Charles jump. Mr. Lensherr stretched his hand toward the filing cabinet and there was a bang of reversion as the dent he'd made popped itself back out.

“Erik,” Mr. Worthington said in a low, warning voice. “Control yourself, please.” Mr. Lensherr laughed sharply. “For Charles's sake.”

“Oh yes,” Mr. Lensherr said, faintly mocking. “We mustn't upset the children.” He came up behind Charles's chair and rested his hands on the back of it, very carefully not touching any part of Charles. “Do you know what this means, Mr. Xavier?”

Charles twisted around in his seat so he could look up at Mr. Lensherr. “No?”

Mr. Lensherr bent his knees and leaned forward in order to properly loom over Charles. “It means that you are going to make the next four years of my life a living hell.”

“Erik!” Mr. Worthington stood and his wings snapped to attention. “I said, control yourself!”

“So fire me!” Mr. Lensherr cried as he backed away from Charles. “Kick me out! A fourteen year old child? This whole thing is absurd!”

Mr. Worthington stood and herded Mr. Lensherr out the door, shielding Mr. Lensherr from Charles's view with one wing and saying in low, soothing tones, “Go on and wait in the next office, Erik. Sheryl, could you get Emma Frost down here? She's always better with this sort of thing. Thanks so much.” When Mr. Lensherr was safely out of the office, Mr. Worthington closed his door again. He turned to Charles with an apologetic smile and said, “I'm sorry, he was keeping himself together so well before you got here. Perhaps I should have known it wouldn't last.”

“He... smelled me?” Charles asked, still shocked by Mr. Lensherr's outburst.

“Yes,” Mr. Worthington said slowly. “I gather that some alpha males are especially sensitive to scent when it comes to their, er, 'mates.'”

“I'm his mate?”

Mr. Worthington steepled his fingers and regarded Charles solemnly. “From his perspective, yes. But from the school's perspective? Certainly not. At least, not until you graduate.”

“What about _my_ perspective?”

Mr. Worthington shrugged. “Your perspective is up to you, Charles. Frankly, I don't blame you if you find the whole thing distasteful right now. You're young. You shouldn't feel obligated to live your life as if you're already attached, you know.”

Charles crossed his arms, trying to make himself feel more secure. Mr. Lensherr had seemed so nice that morning, despite his imposing looks, and Charles hated knowing that he'd had an ulterior motive. “I don't feel attached to him,” he said.

“From what I understand, most omegas don't. At least not at first. I suppose it's just as well.” There was a soft knock on his office door, and Mr. Worthington said, “Is that you, Miss Frost?” Apparently, the answer was affirmative, and so he said, “Come in, then. You're not interrupting.”

The door opened and pale, blonde Miss Frost stepped in. Her mannerisms were surprisingly reserved despite her very striking appearance. “Hello, Charles,” Miss Frost said aloud. In Charles's head, however, she continued: _Out of my class for barely five minutes and already getting into trouble?_

 _ **i**_ _haven't done anything_ , Charles thought back.

Unhelpfully, Mr. Worthington said, “Miss Frost is a telepath too, Charles.”

“I know,” Charles said. It came out sounding more rude than he meant it to, so he added, “She's my English teacher.”

“Wonderful,” Mr. Worthington said. “I'm going to make Miss Frost your advisor, Charles. I think she will be very helpful as you navigate this difficult time in your life.” He scrawled a note in Charles's file. “If you don't have any more questions for me, then I'm afraid I'll have to turn you over to Miss Frost. The day continues on, you know.”

“Just—I mean, are you going to tell my parents?” Charles looked from Mr. Worthington to Miss Frost and back. He felt terribly young and helpless all of a sudden, and wished that he could rewind everything to that morning, when he'd considered himself so grown-up because he was finally really in high school.

“There is a confidentiality clause that applies in a case like this, but that's more for Mr. Lensherr's sake than yours,” Mr. Worthington said. “The school won't be informing your parents, Charles, unless Mr. Lensherr oversteps his bounds. But I certainly encourage you to tell them yourself.” Charles nodded, thinking privately that there was no way he was ever going to sit down at dinner that evening and tell his mother and Kurt that, on his first day of high school, one of the teachers had... what? Fallen in love with him? Charles wasn't even entirely clear on this much. He understood that his world had blurred and shifted into something else, something far different from what it had been that morning, but he couldn't see exactly how. “Anything else?” Charles shook his head. “Well, then. Go ahead and follow Miss Frost.” Charles stood while Mr. Worthington scribbled something out on a hall pass. When he was finished, he tore the pass off the pad and handed it to Charles. “For when you're ready to go back to class,” he explained.

Miss Frost steered him out of Mr. Worthington's office and around a corner to a small meeting room with a round table. It was empty. “Where's Mr. Lensherr?” Charles asked as he took a seat. Just then, the bell rang.

Miss Frost didn't wait for it to stop before answering his question. _Home_ , she thought, _or on his way. I'm afraid today's events shook him rather more than he wanted to admit._

_is he in love with me?_ Charles asked, feeling dumb. 

Miss Frost's answering smile didn't make him feel any smarter.  _Oh sugar_ , she thought,  _right now he probably hates you_ . She took a seat across from Charles.  _But he'll get over it._

_i don't understand!_ Charles sniffed and was alarmed at the prospect of crying in front of Miss Frost.  _this doesn't make any sense._

_Think of it this way_ , Miss Frost thought after a moment. _Finding your mate is supposed to be exciting and pleasurable, isn't it? Like coming home after being gone for a long time. And not just for mutants, I suppose_. Charles nodded, and she went on. _It's supposed to be something you're proud to share with others._

“But Mr. Lensherr can't tell anyone about me,” Charles whispered.

 _No_ , Miss Frost agreed, _nor would he want to_.

_because i'm just a kid_ , Charles thought miserably. He was more dismayed at this reminder of how immature he was than at Mr. Lensherr's predicament.  _well, why doesn't he just go find someone his own age?_

_I'm sure he's tried_ , Miss Frost thought with amusement.  _But I will pass along the suggestion_ . When Charles glared at her, she sighed and said, “Charles, he  _can't_ .”

“Why not?”

“Well, he won't want to, now that you've signaled to him that you're perfect.”

“I didn't give him any signals!” Charles gasped.

_Not that you know about._ Miss Frost winked, and Charles squirmed in his seat.  _I'm sorry, hon. Your biology did the talking for you._

Charles slumped down over the table and rested his chin in his hands. _does this happen often?_ Miss Frost shook her head. _so why don't they just fire him?_

Miss Frost hesitated. _They don't have good cause to. At least, unless he touches you._

Charles could feel her discomfort and it made him uneasy. _he said i was going to make his life hell. why doesn't he just quit?_

 _I'm sure he'll seriously consider it, at least for the next few weeks,_ she thought. _But in the end, I don't think he'll want to leave. He'll probably want to stay to keep an eye on you._ This made Charles feel creepy. Miss Frost obviously sensed that and hurried to add, _Besides, he likes this job. He said he got too frustrated with his old one._

_what was his old job?_

_Mutant rights advocacy. He was a lobbyist in Washington for several years._

_huh._ Charles wasn't sure what to make of this. Being a lobbyist sounded far nicer to him than being a high school teacher.  _does he teach government?_

_No, physics. That's what his degree is in, although from what I gather he spent most of college working his way into the political world._ Miss Frost tipped her head to one side.  _Sometimes he'll help the debate team, though._

_what's his mutation?_ Charles asked.

_Metal manipulation,_ Miss Frost answered.  _And being a pain in everyone's ass, apparently._ She waited while Charles giggled.  _He was part of the group that pushed for an officially integrated human and mutant public school_ , she added when she knew Charles was listening.

_oh._

_The original idea was to get an all-mutant school together, but since that didn't materialize, this was the next best thing._ Charles picked at his nails and didn't respond.  _He's not a bad man_ , Miss Frost finally thought.  _You could do far worse_ .

_hadn't thought about it,_ Charles responded.  _i'm fourteen_ .

_Really, Charles_ , she thought.  _There are plenty of men who wouldn't have come and told the administration right away. Plenty of men who would not have told **you**. Who would have watched you from afar for years—_ her thoughts stretched and hesitated— _who might not have stopped at watching._

Charles wrinkled his nose.  _but he could still—_

_He could_ , Miss Frost thought firmly.  _But he won't_ . 

_but how do you **know**?_

_Because I've read his mind._

_oh._ Charles kicked at the floor, scuffing the toe of his sneaker on the carpet.  _i don't like to do that too much. it makes people nervous._

_I find it makes life run far more smoothly._ Miss Frost flipped her perfect blonde waves over her shoulder.  _It eliminates uncertainty_ . 

_maybe_ , Charles thought, unconvinced. He sighed and said, “I was going to go out for cross-country.”

_You still can_ , Miss Frost thought, but Charles detected a sliver of worry between her words.  _Mr. Lensherr will adapt. That's his job, as your coach and teacher._

“We'll see,” Charles said. “May I go to class now?”

“If you're ready,” Miss Frost said. Charles nodded. “Fine. It's just as well, really, since there are twenty-five or so sophomores I'm meant to be terrorizing right now.” Charles smiled at that, and Miss Frost smiled back. “Come see me if you run into trouble.”

“OK,” Charles said, standing up and moving toward the door.

_And don't forget your homework for tomorrow_ , Miss Frost thought as she held the door open for him.  _No excuses_ .

***

That evening, after Charles had finished writing and printing out his journal entry for Miss Frost on their summer reading, he did a search on Google for information on alpha and omega pairs. He was not exactly shocked to see that a lot of the results were pornographic, but he carefully avoided those in favor of the Wikipedia page, some blogs with names he trusted, and newspaper articles. Yet everything he read there seemed to him distressingly vague. No one knew exactly why alpha males chose the mates they did or why they became so attached so quickly. The current theory posited that this “imprinting” phenomenon stemmed from a need for mutants to be as genetically compatible as possible for the sake of reproduction. This made sense to Charles, but he was disappointed to see that none of the studies he could find had managed to prove anything conclusively or determine how alphas knew a particular omega's DNA was compatible with their own. One thing Charles learned with no small degree of annoyance was that imprinting was more common in same-sex pairs—presumably because heterosexual mutants had a lot more to choose from in the way of finding people to have sex with, and so the urgency of imprinting was diminished. He also read a survey suggesting that male alpha/omega couples were more likely to incorporate violence into their sex and courtship than were female alpha/omega couples, which he did not like one bit. 

So, instead of continuing to read about the subject that was relevant to him, he clicked through the blogroll on Jezebel and wound up backreading the blog of a feminist alpha which documented lesbian life with a clitoral phallus. Pictures were included: some tastefully explicit, but most just pleasant snapshots of her with her partner and friends. It was fascinating, but very far removed from Charles's own life, and so Charles stayed up until one a.m. reading her entries and trying to forget what had happened to him on his first day of high school.


	2. Chapter 2

Charles's second day of high school began with an older boy banging him into a locker and calling him a faggot, but that was something Charles had dealt with in middle school so he didn't dwell on it. On his third day, however, Charles could not help noticing that a lot more of his classmates were giving him funny, contemplative looks and giggling than seemed strictly normal. Annoyed, he eventually caved and listened in on a whispered conversation between three of the girls in his French class.  _I hear boys like him are really, um, small_ , the ringleader said, barely moving her lips.  _Almost like a girl, right? Because that's what they are. Basically._ The other two girls tittered and snuck looks over at Charles, who flushed and stared resolutely at the cover of his French textbook. 

By the time he had his gym class seventh period, Charles was starting to regret that he had rejected his mother's offer to attend boarding school in favor of the hell he was currently embroiled in. So when a sophomore whined about having Charles on his team for touch football because “hens play like pussies,” Charles exploded. “I can hear you!” he yelled. A couple students laughed nervously, and the teacher called out, “Hey! Knock it off or you go to the office!” So Charles spent the remainder of the game steaming mad and playing poorly, which did nothing to dispel any stereotypes. 

As soon as the day was over, Charles ran up to Miss Frost's classroom. She was tidying up her desk when he burst in and thought, frantically,  _how do they all know?_

She did not look up. _Know what?_

_people know that i'm an omega._ He glared at her as he ran his hands through his hair, only succeeding in making it look more disheveled than before.  _i've never told any of them, never said anything in class. how do they know?_

Miss Frost closed her eyes. Her hands stilled on the piles of assignments she was straightening.  _It's not easy to keep secrets in a school this size,_ she thought. She opened her eyes and looked up at Charles.  _And you and I are not the only telepaths here._

“I don't get it,” Charles whined. “Who told?”

_Teachers and administrators are currently trading in gossip about Mr. Lensherr's situation. Students overhear and wind up knowing about you as well._ She shrugged. “I'm sorry, Charles.”

“I didn't do anything to deserve this!” Charles cried.

_I know. It's unfair._

Charles sank into a desk. “People call me gay all the time,” he said tonelessly. “I dealt with it. I got used to it. But now they're going to tease me about this too.” He folded his arms on the desktop and put his head down, hiding his face. _i don't think i can take it._

_You're tougher than you know._ Miss Frost came out from behind her desk and walked up to where Charles was slumped. She patted his back awkwardly.  _But I can think of someone who might be a good person to talk to..._

_oh no_ , Charles thought. _no way_.

_Isn't the first cross-country practice today?_

_so?_

_You'll have to talk to him then, won't you?_

Charles lifted his head and gave Miss Frost a withering look. _no_ , he thought, _i'll just show up and run_.

Miss Frost cuffed him on the back of the head. _Suit yourself_ , she thought as she went back to her desk.

Charles waited a minute before asking, _so what do i do?_

_About the teasing?_

_yeah._

_Ignore it. Tease them back. Tell a teacher if it gets out of hand_. Miss Frost shrugged. _It will be hard, but I think you'll make it through._ When Charles looked disappointed by this answer, she added, “I'm sorry. I wish I had a better answer for you.” _Think of it as preparation for your adult life_ , she added.

_if this is what being an adult is going to be like all the time_ , Charles thought, _then i don't want to grow up._

_Join the club_ , Miss Frost shot back.

***

Charles was right about not having to talk to Mr. Lensherr during cross-country practice. In fact, he barely even had to see Mr. Lensherr, since as a freshman he was on the JV team, which was handled by the assistant coach. So Charles ran and felt better. That evening, he browsed Reddit after he finished his homework and tried to reassure himself that the past couple of days had been flukes and that soon everyone would just forget about him. It was a comforting thought, and for a while he even believed it.

But Thursday turned out to be even more like Wednesday, and Friday was worse. Charles was putting his books from the morning into his locker before going to lunch when he felt something wet explode over his head. He hadn't been paying attention before, but when he whirled around he realized that the muffled laughter he'd heard had been from a group of boys who had crept up behind him, and not just the usual noise of other students passing as he'd thought. The main boy, who Charles recognized as being on the varsity cross-country team, had emptied his water bottle on Charles's head. Charles stared at him, uncomprehending. “You get wet for Lensherr?” the boy asked, then laughed hugely. His friends laughed too.

Charles blinked as the boys high-fived and ran off. Water trickled down his neck, soaking into the neck of his polo shirt. It ran down over his face and Charles was actually glad for that, since it hid the fact that he'd begun to cry. The hall was almost empty now, and Charles was glad for that too. He stowed all of his things in his locker, careful to keep them from getting any wetter, but then just stood there and stared at the dark shadow in the back of his locker and concentrated on the way the water felt as it dampened the back of his shirt.

“What happened to you?” A rough voice said. Charles's head jerked up and he looked to the right. Mr. Lensherr was standing at the door of his classroom and staring at Charles. His room wasn't more than fifteen feet away from Charles's locker. Charles wondered if he should ask if he could trade lockers with someone.

“A boy threw water on me,” Charles said after taking a moment to control his tears.

Mr. Lensherr frowned. “Do you know his name?”

Charles looked back into his locker, back at the shadow on the wall. “No,” he said.

“Why are you lying?” Mr. Lensherr asked.

“I'm not,” Charles whispered.

“Sure,” Mr. Lensherr sighed. “Do you have class right now?”

“This is my lunch.”

“Well, come in here,” Mr. Lensherr said. “I have a towel with my gym stuff.”

Charles followed Mr. Lensherr into his classroom at a safe distance. “Do you have lunch now too?” he asked as Mr. Lensherr went to his desk, opened one of the bottom drawers, and fished out a blue towel from his duffel bag.

“Yes,” Mr. Lensherr said, handing the towel to Charles, who began to dry his hair with it.

“Could I eat in your room?” Charles asked after rubbing his face with the towel. “I won't bother you.”

Mr. Lensherr gave him an odd, pitying look. “Don't you have friends?”

“They have a different lunch,” Charles answered defensively, even though “they” mostly consisted of Hank McCoy, who he'd been best friends with since sixth grade.

“Oh.” Mr. Lensherr held a loose fist up to his mouth and cleared his throat. He picked a pen up off of his desk and fiddled with it for a moment. “You can eat here,” he said, but didn't look at Charles.

Charles returned to his locker, got his lunch bag and his geometry homework, and went back to Mr. Lensherr's classroom. Mr. Lensherr had taken a seat at his desk, and Charles chose to sit as far back as he could, close to the door. Charles was afraid that Mr. Lensherr would try to talk to him, but after about ten minutes he realized that Mr. Lensherr was afraid of exactly the same thing. Charles ate quietly and finished his homework. Just before the bell was about to ring, he stood and said, “Mr. Lensherr?” Mr. Lensherr looked up. “It was Todd,” Charles said.

“Todd from cross-country?” Charles nodded. Mr. Lensherr closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I'll say something to him.”

“Just don't say that I told you,” Charles pleaded. “He'll probably know, but still...”

“I know,” Mr. Lensherr said, more gently than Charles expected. “I won't tell him.”

“Thanks,” Charles said, then hurried out before things had a chance to get really embarrassing.


	3. Chapter 3

Charles didn't mean to keep going back to Mr. Lensherr's room to eat lunch, but he soon found that it was about the only place outside of his own bedroom where he didn't get called names. If he turned on the television or got on Facebook, even his own room stopped being safe. People often called him faggot or queer, which somehow wasn't so bad; it made him feel as if he belonged to a group of people, an actual community. In fact, he felt almost normal when he heard a party or a show or a t-shirt being called "gay," and then became briefly irritated that his identity was being used to make an unfavorable comparison. But unfortunately the names that followed him the most were the infinitely crueler—and cruder—ones used to refer to male omegas. He soon found that there were about a million variations on the theme, as he regularly heard himself referred to as chick, chickie, hen, peachick, and peahen. He even endured gauntlets of clucking noises while walking down the hall at school. In the locker room after gym class, boys asked if he'd laid any eggs yet. After spring break of his sophomore year things were especially bad, as someone took it upon themselves to decorate his locker with cardboard cutouts of Easter eggs. Worse, when he opened his locker, he found that several raw eggs had been smashed through the ventilation slots, and so everything he'd left in his locker over the break had been covered in slime.

That Monday he spent the morning telling anyone who would listen that he didn't lay eggs, asking his classmates if they honestly thought that he did, and huffily asserting that even though he was a mutant, he wasn't some sort of _bird_. By midday he had given up, since it was apparent that no one cared whether he really laid eggs or not, and retreated to Mr. Lensherr's classroom to eat his lunch in peace. During his sophomore year, Charles only ate lunch in Mr. Lensherr's room on exceptionally bad days, days when Hank was absent, or during the memorable week when Hank refused to apologize for calling him a crybaby. Charles usually appreciated the fact that Mr. Lensherr went out of his way to pretend that Charles wasn't in the room at all, and didn't seem at all put out when Charles wanted to do the same. But Mr. Lensherr must have gotten wind of the whole Easter egg incident, because he took the time to gently explain to Charles that calling young men like him "chicks" had originated, not as a reference to any reproductive abilities, but as an allusion to their age, which was often—though not always—younger than that of their alpha. "An older man who preferred younger lovers was called a chickenhawk," he had explained in the detached tone of voice he usually used when talking to Charles, "and the young men were chickens—chicks, boychicks. White meat." Charles blushed at this and Mr. Lensherr coughed. "Anyway, things got a bit confused when the terms started being applied to mutants. So just try not to take it personally.”

"At least hawks are cool," Charles muttered into his peanut butter and banana sandwich. He'd heard people call Mr. Lensherr a hawk once or twice. But, unlike with Charles, people weren't exactly eager to be caught insulting Mr. Lensherr. "Chickens aren't cool at all."

"Whether or not it's cool isn't relevant," Mr. Lensherr said, his lecturing voice taking on a sharp edge. "All those terms are derogatory." He looked Charles in the eye, cocked his head, and said, "When they call me a hawk, they mean I'm a predator. But a predator is the last thing I want to be."

Charles considered this and found it reasonable enough. So the next time he ate in Mr. Lensherr's room, he did his best to start a civil conversation. At first, Mr. Lensherr mostly gave him one-word answers , but once Charles began talking about how things were going to go for cross-country in the fall, Mr. Lensherr seemed to perk up. “Next year you'll be running for me,” he said when Charles whined about summer training. “I don't want to hear that you spent the whole summer playing video games instead of improving your time.”

“Video games are fun,” Charles said. “Also, they improve hand-eye coordination and help you develop strategic-thinking skills.” Mr. Lensherr gave him a skeptical look. “What? Don't tell me you never even played _Super Mario_. You're not that old.” Charles looked down at his lunch and began rearranging his celery and carrot sticks, fully aware that he'd just said something dumb and yet thinking that, seeing as he'd already put one foot in his mouth, he might as well just shove the other one in too. “How old are you, anyway?”

“I just turned thirty-one," Mr. Lensherr answered. His expression was neutral, but Charles could tell it wasn't a subject he wanted to spend a lot of time on.

“Oh,” Charles said. “That's not very old at all,” he added soothingly. Mr. Lensherr raised his eyebrows at this, but Charles wasn't paying attention. Instead, he was fitting his carrot slices into the hollow of the celery. “It's weird,” he said in between bites of his new, more economical vegetable, “but it seems like all the teachers at this school who are mutants are pretty young.”

“It's not weird at all,” Mr. Lensherr said. “They only started granting teaching licenses to mutants in the past ten years. And even then, most schools weren't willing to hire us.”

“I didn't know that,” Charles said. Mr. Lensherr shrugged, dismissing his ignorance. Charles's thoughts drifted back to the day before, when he'd seen his locker completely covered in pastel pink, yellow, and purple eggs dancing around a printout of a baby chick, which had been given the place of honor right over the vent. The egg smell still lingered, and the pages of some of Charles's books were permanently discolored. “Did people tease you, when you were younger?” Charles asked.

“No,” Mr. Lensherr said. He kept his eyes focused on his laptop. “They were afraid of me.”

“Why?” Charles asked.

Mr. Lensherr looked up. “You don't think I'm scary?” he said with a half-smile.

“You don't look very scary,” Charles said carefully.

“Mm.” Mr. Lensherr went back to moving his wireless mouse over his desktop. It made a repetitive chafing noise on the blotter. “Well, I got into some fights when I was younger.” He clicked on something, frowned at the result, then clicked again.

Charles watched Mr. Lensherr's increasingly dramatic struggle with whatever was on his screen for a couple of minutes before curiosity got the better of him. “What are you doing?”

“Making a spreadsheet,” Mr. Lensherr said. “For my grades.”

“I don't think spreadsheets are supposed to be that hard.”

“I hate Excel.”

Charles tried to watched him work, but eventually he couldn't resist asking: “Did you always think you'd be a teacher?”

“Nope.”

“Well, what were you going to do instead?”

Mr. Lensherr's gaze alternated between the computer screen and a notebook that lay open on the desk beside his left elbow. “Not a clue.”

“Did you ever make _any_ plans?”

“Not a single one.”

“Why did you get into fights?”

The mouse stopped and Mr. Lensherr's hand hovered over the keyboard. “They were calling one of my friends names,” he said after a pause so long that Charles had been about ready to repeat the question.

“Oh.”

Mr. Lensherr turned in his chair and looked Charles in the eye. “I put a guy in the hospital. I was a show off, you know, when it came to my abilities. I'm not proud of it.” He covered his mouth with one hand and wiped his fingers across his lips. “Maybe a little proud.” Sunlight was coming into the room, filtered through venetian blinds at half-mast. A bright yellow line painted itself across Mr. Lensherr's forehead. “He didn't try to tease mutants anymore, at least.”

Charles nodded, but inside a major conflict was raging. On the one hand, he was glad that Mr. Lensherr had been willing to stand up to bullies. He wished he could be better at it himself. On the other hand, he didn't like that Mr. Lensherr had used his powers to hurt someone else. “I don't like violence,” he said. Then he thought of all the action movies he and Hank had consumed on lazy weekends and he added, “I mean, in real life.”

“Then you're smarter than I was at your age,” Mr. Lensherr said.

***

That fall, on the first day of his junior year, Charles wasn't particularly surprised when Mr. Lensherr's overview of the classroom rules for Accelerated Physics included an admonition to anyone who might consider resorting to name-calling to settle future disputes or alleviate boredom. "No one in this room is an animal," he said gravely. "No girl is a dog or a fox or a hyena. No boy is a chick or a hen or a hawk. Understand that if I hear these words, or any other charming epithets, being used to describe someone in this room, then detention will be the least of your worries." With that, Mr. Lensherr gently set the extra copies of his syllabus down on his desk—because, despite the reputation he may have had as a teenager, the present Mr. Lensherr rarely had to yell or gesture sharply in order to make his point—and Charles's favorite class for the year officially became Accelerated Physics. The awkwardness of being taught by the man who would, one day, try to be his lover was outweighed by the magnificent freedom from teasing Charles experienced for fifty minutes a day, five days a week.

When the time came for him to choose his classes for senior year, Charles leaped at the chance to take AP Physics with Mr. Lensherr, even though the subject interested him far less than either biology or chemistry. This disparity hardly mattered, however, since he would still be able to take his precious bio and organic chem classes at Mercy College thanks to some string-pulling with the school system. The thought that Mr. Lensherr might get the wrong idea from his continued presence worried Charles far more. In the end, however, that near-hour of peace was too precious to Charles for him to give it up. On the first day of his senior year, Charles listened to Mr. Lensherr's little speech with the deepest relief. At the end, Mr. Lensherr said, "When you disrespect your classmates in my room, you disrespect me. And you don't want to disrespect me.” Then he grinned a grin that contained lots of teeth but little humor, and Charles smiled back.

The expectation of peace in Mr. Lensherr's class made it doubly shocking to him when, on Wednesday of the third week of school, Mr. Lensherr cornered him as soon as he entered the room. "You little idiot," he hissed, using his body to herd Charles back out the door without ever having to lay a hand on him. "What do you think you're doing here?"

"Going to class?" Charles answered, holding his books in front of him like a shield. Behind him, the hallway pulsed with students hurrying to where they needed to be.

"No," Mr. Lensherr said, quirking his head to one side. His nostrils flared. "You're not." The bell rang. He waited for the last stragglers to file into his classroom, then shut the door. As the hallway cleared, Charles was suddenly very aware that he and this bizarre version of Mr. Lensherr would soon be alone together.

"But it's a lab day," Charles said, cringing at the pathetic sound of his own voice.

"You'll make it up later," Mr. Lensherr growled. "Right now, you need to leave."

"What?"

"You cannot be here." Mr. Lensherr grimaced. Every word sounded strained, as if he were struggling to force them between his teeth like bullets from a gun.

Charles shook his head. "I—I don't understand."

"You stupid child!" Mr. Lensherr barked out, then lowered his voice so Charles had to strain to hear him. "You're going into heat."

"No," Charles whispered, once the words sank in. "That's not—I mean, I—I don't feel any different—"

"You will," Mr. Lensherr said and turned away from Charles. "I can smell it." He stalked down the hall to the door of the room adjoining his and banged on it hard enough that the hinges rattled. "Frost!" He called out. When Miss Frost answered the door, Mr. Lensherr gestured to Charles. "I need you to deal with this," he said tightly.

"Deal with what?" she asked.

Before Mr. Lensherr could reply, Charles thought to her: _he says i'm going into heat but i don't feel any different and it's too early anyway right?_

Miss Frost's eyes widened slightly. "I see," she said. She looked at Mr. Lensherr, but he had folded his arms and was staring fixedly down at the floor. "Go back to your class, Erik," she said. She spoke with a gentle indulgence that Charles had never dreamed he'd hear coming from the normally strict Miss Frost. For an instant, he felt a strange, hot flare of jealousy in his chest, but it dissipated almost immediately. Mr. Lensherr said nothing in response, only nodded and then stalked away without even a backward glance at Charles before he slammed the door of his room shut.

 _Wait here a moment_ , Miss Frost said inside Charles's head. He leaned against the wall of lockers and listened as she told her class that she would be gone for five minutes, and, if there were any problems in the meantime, they should alert Mr. Lensherr next door. Then she was beside Charles again, and thinking, _Come along_.

 _where are we going?_ Charles asked as Miss Frost steered him toward the stairwell.

 _ **We**_ _are going to the nurse_ , Miss Frost thought. _And then_ _ **you**_ _are going home_.

Charles very nearly missed a step and, for a moment, was distracted by the prospect of falling head-first to his death. “I'm really in heat?” he said, regretting the volume of his voice as he heard his words echo against the concrete walls.

 _Yes_ , Miss Frost thought. _I'm sorry_ , she added after a moment.

 _but i'm—too young—i thought—at least twenty, twenty-one_. Charles gripped the handrail and stared down at Miss Frost, who had gone on a few steps more than Charles before stopping.

 _Once you reach puberty, estrus can appear at any time_. She blinked and Charles felt the pause of thought that indicated a sigh. _In truth, your proximity to Mr. Lensherr... being in his class, being coached by him for cross-country... it probably accelerated the process_.

“No one ever said,” Charles whispered. But in the back of his mind, far out of Miss Frost's reach, he thought, _But didn't a part of you suspect?_ All of the blog posts and message board discussions he'd read on the subject of when to expect your first heat floated to the surface of his mind at once, taunting him with their contradictory information and false reassurances. _Did a part of you actually_ _hope_ _?_

Charles's anxieties were washed back by a wave of Miss Frost's guilt—tempered, of course, by her usual icy pragmatism. _It was either tell you and watch you avoid him for four years, to your detriment and his, or not tell you and risk an early estrus._ She stepped up to Charles, taking exaggerated care in her high heels. _As your advisor, I chose the course that seemed likely to do the least harm_.

 _you should have told me_ , Charles thought, taking a deep breath. _i should have been the one to make that choice._

 _Perhaps_. He and Miss Frost stared at one another while Charles threw all his fear and indignation at her and Miss Frost did nothing but absorb it. Finally, she held up one hand. “Enough,” she said, then patted Charles on the shoulder. “It isn't nearly as bad as you think. When you are older, you'll probably even find it pleasurable.”

“I don't want to,” Charles sulked. Still, he allowed Miss Frost to begin guiding him down the stairs once more. “I don't want to have to go through it at all.”

“And yet, you shall survive,” Miss Frost replied.

***

In the nurse's office, the situation was explained with very little input from him; the only thing Charles was able to successfully assert was that calling his mother would not be necessary and that he would be fine to walk home on his own. He was escorted back to his locker by Miss Frost to get his things. Before he left, she pressed an excuse note and a pamphlet entitled “Your First Estrus” into his hand. _could you let my sister know?_ he thought to Miss Frost. _i mean, not about_ _ **this**_ _, but we usually walk home together if she doesn't have rehearsal so I can get my gym bag for practice and—_

“I will make sure Raven knows not to expect you,” Miss Frost said. _And that you are perfectly fine at home... becoming a man._

“Thanks,” Charles said, wrinkling his nose. “I think.”


	4. Chapter 4

It was a grey, foggy day and Charles shuffled home through the shallow piles of leaves that had begun to collect on the sidewalk. The neighborhood seemed alien to him, the trees all swaying in the wind as if they were shaking their branches at him and asking, “Shouldn't you be in school?” To distract himself, Charles read the pamphlet as he walked, taking great care to keep it folded over so the title wouldn't be visible to anyone who happened to pass.

 

**Your First Estrus**

 

**What is Estrus?**

Almost all female mammals experience times in their reproductive cycles when they are more receptive to sexual contact. These periods correspond with the time in the cycle when the female is most likely to become pregnant. Even human females, whose menstrual cycles allow for sexual arousal at any time, often show more interest in sex during ovulation. Omega males most commonly experience estrus (sometimes called “heat”) twice a year, corresponding with ovulation.

**Estrus and Omega Males**

Omega male mutants are very special because they possess reproductive organs that allow them to become pregnant, while still having the primary and secondary sex characteristics typical of human males. What makes omega males different from from human males and females is the presence of both a penis and, instead of a vagina, a cloacal opening that branches into the colon and the uterus. Omega males may produce ejaculate, but rarely does their semen contain sperm. Unlike human and mutant females, omega males go through an estrous cycle rather than a menstrual cycle. Instead of ovulating once every twenty-eight days and shedding the uterine lining when fertilization does not occur, omega males ovulate approximately once every six months and reabsorb the uterine lining. Omega males typically experience their first estrus between ages eighteen and twenty-two, but estrus has been reported in mutants as young as fourteen.

**What Happens During Estrus**

Estrus typically lasts between twenty-four and forty-eight hours. In the early stages, your temperature will be elevated and other mutants may be able to detect a change in your scent. Alpha males will be especially receptive to this change. If you have a mate or committed partner, they may become unusually possessive of you and express violence toward those they perceive as a threat. As estrus progresses, strong sexual arousal becomes more apparent, with a persistent erection and excessive lubrication being the most common symptoms. Omega males in full estrus are often sexually aggressive, demanding, and highly emotional.

**Preparing for Your First Estrus**

Experiencing estrus for the first time can be scary and disorienting, especially if you are not expecting it and do not have a partner to help you. It is best to be in a familiar, private place during estrus. Make sure family and friends understand that you are going to need an extended amount of time alone. Some things you should have ready are:

  * a towel

  * a bottle of water

  * a snack

  * lotion or lubricant

  * masturbatory aids (visual aids, novels, toys, etc.)




Having food and drink nearby is especially important, as many omegas report increased hunger and thirst during their estrus, and sustained physical activity is likely to aggravate this. To stay safe, keep yourself hydrated and take short breaks whenever you feel you are able. Make sure you shower thoroughly before going back out into public to avoid attracting unwanted attention from alpha males.

 **Remember** : estrus means that your body is ready to conceive. Your partner should always wear a condom while you are in estrus unless you are ready to become pregnant.

Stay safe, think healthy, and your first estrus will be nothing to worry about!!!

 

Those extra exclamation points worried Charles, but still, when he reached his large, empty house, he dutifully grabbed an apple, a granola bar, and a bottle of water from the kitchen before going upstairs. From the bathroom, he took a clean towel and a half-empty bottle of Jergens. When he got to his room, he dumped his supplies onto his bed and shucked off his backpack, shoes, and sweater. He still felt too warm, so he went ahead and took off his blue jeans and his socks as well before sitting on the edge of his bed and considering what sort of things he had that would count as “masturbatory aids.” He looked over his DVDs and decided that he might as well put in one of his old standbys, the movies that he put on those nights when he wanted to drift off to visions of handsome men.

Charles pulled _300_ off the shelf and put it into the DVD player, then turned the sound down low and sat back on the edge of the bed. Using the remote, he fast-forwarded to the first scene of battle. Within moments, he felt himself growing erect as familiar fantasies of sweaty, well-muscled adult men fighting one another—or perhaps making him an all-too-willing hostage—overtook his thoughts. He blushed, a little bit ashamed even as he opened his thighs and began to stroke himself through the material of his briefs.

Despite his lingering misgivings, Charles was soon lying on his back, angled so he could still see the TV if he turned his head, and jerking off furiously. Most of the movie went by him in a haze, with Charles only rising out of his private reveries when a particularly passionate imagined moment required a glimpse of a sturdy thigh, hip, or lower abdomen to be complete. Therefore, he was startled when the ending credits began to roll and he realized that nearly two hours had passed without him ever approaching climax. He swore under his breath and clumsily changed the DVD to his second-favorite nighttime movie: _Fight Club_.

But by the time he got to Brad Pitt's shirtless scenes, he had begun to worry. Charles was only seventeen and had never in his life experienced any difficulty in bringing himself to orgasm. They may never have been especially intense orgasms, and he had a tendency to shy away from thinking too much about the actual mechanics of sex, but all the same, he had never found self-pleasure difficult to achieve. Yet it had been close to three hours since he'd begun touching himself and, although his entire body ached with arousal, he still didn't feel much closer to a climax than he had when he'd begun. He lifted his hips high and let them fall back down with a frustrated sigh. Squirming in his sweat-soaked bedsheets, Charles pushed his damp hair back off of his forehead. Not only was he tense beyond belief, he was exhausted and beginning to get sore even with the use of the Jergens.

Unable to dismiss his mounting fears, Charles envisioned being hopelessly stuck on the way to gratification for another three hours, perhaps even more, long enough for his sister and mother and stepfather to come home. He imagined having to explain the situation to his easily overwrought mother. A possible future in which she and Kurt had to drive him to the emergency room filled him with absolute dread; he was fairly certain that he would die of embarrassment long before they ever made it to the hospital. Charles rubbed himself idly as panic spiraled his thoughts away from sex, even though he knew that being distracted by his fears wasn't going to help him at all with the problem at hand.

When he head the sound of a car pulling up his driveway, Charles yanked his comforter over his head and groaned out loud. He couldn't believe it. Of all the days for Kurt to leave work early and come straight home, it just had to be the day when Charles would have preferred to be as far from his stepfather as possible. Tentatively, Charles reached out with his mind, trying to discern what sort of mood Kurt was in.

But when he delved into the mind of the man coming up the walkway to the front door, instead of Kurt Marko's usual soup of banal irritations and resentments, Charles felt the desperate and uncertain need of Mr. Lensherr. He gasped, alone in his room, and clapped his hands over his mouth. When Mr. Lensherr rang the doorbell, Charles gave him a mental nudge and thought, _mr. lensherr?_

 _c-h-a-r-l-e-s?_ Mr. Lensherr thought, then said aloud: “Charles?”

 _what are you doing here?_ Charles asked.

The response he got was a mélange of worry, anxiety, and tension. “Can I come inside?” Mr. Lensherr said. Charles heard Mr. Lensherr thinking of the words he would say a fraction of a second before he heard Mr. Lensherr hearing himself speaking. The result was a stereo effect that Charles found annoying, but tolerable. “Your neighbors might think it's odd if I hang around your door for too long. But I... I won't come into your room, of course.”

 _ok_ , Charles thought. He sensed Mr. Lensherr using his own powers to undo the lock on the door. Charles noted, and not for the first time, that Mr. Lensherr's immunity to locked doors was quite frightening. And yet, at the moment, he was mostly pleased that he didn't have to struggle back into his blue jeans to run downstairs and let Mr. Lensherr in.

Mr. Lensherr made his way down through the foyer. He peered curiously down several halls and finally muttered, “Good god, I don't think I could even find your room if I wanted to. This place is massive.” He hesitated at the door to the dining room. “Is it OK for me to talk?” Mr. Lensherr asked. “I don't... my thoughts don't line up like yours—”

 _it's fine_ , Charles cut him off. _why are you here?_

“You were sending me—I mean, I could feel your... distress,” Mr. Lensherr said, making his way through the dining room and into the sitting room beyond. “Right now I should be putting things together for the staff meeting after school, but I thought it was more important that I come and check on you.”

 _oh_ , Charles thought, puzzled. _but i don't normally—it's just that my range doesn't usually extend so far. not all the way to the school._

“Is something wrong, Charles?” Mr. Lensherr asked, pointedly ignoring this new development in Charles's powers.

Charles sent Mr. Lensherr the full force of his embarrassment, wanting his teacher to be at least as uncomfortable as he currently was. When all he got back from Mr. Lensherr was fear and uncertainty and a certain amount of irritation, Charles thought in his tiniest mental voice: _i can't come_.

“Ah.” Charles felt Mr. Lensherr's mind flipping over and over as he struggled to find the appropriate response. “Does it hurt?”

Charles ran both his hands down his stomach and then over his cock. _not yet_ , he whined, _but soon_.

“I think,” Mr. Lensherr said, without the slightest trace of amusement, “that there is a simple solution here. I assume that you haven't tried to, um, penetrate yourself. Have you?”

 _no_ , Charles admitted. He could feel the blush creeping up his neck to his cheeks. _i've never—_

“Charles,” Mr. Lensherr interrupted him in the same exasperated voice he used when someone in class made a dumb mistake, “think about it. Think about what your body is asking for right now.”

 _how would you know?_ Charles shot back, suddenly resenting Mr. Lensherr's intrusion. _you don't know what i need._

“I've been with other men,” Mr. Lensherr said after a moment's pause. “Other omegas. So I have some idea.” Charles's indignation ran cold. He'd never even considered the possibility that Mr. Lensherr had had other lovers. “And of course there's always...” Mr. Lensherr trailed off and his words were replaced by a rush of memories: of books, of magazines, of videos watched on a laptop screen. One grainy amateur video stood out more clearly that the others, and Charles realized that Mr. Lensherr must have watched it over and over, that it was one of his favorites.

 _A young-looking man, an omega, is in bed on his hands and knees, ass held high in the air. His partner is off to one side, barely visible. The man's hand works the omega's ass, pushing first one, then two of his large fingers inside. Are you ready? A gruff voice mutters off-screen. You're so wet. Are you ready for me to fuck you and put a baby in you? The omega whimpers out a yes, and—_ Mr. Lensherr cut the memory short, bringing to the forefront of his mind the equation for finding the friction of objects moving on a curve.

_that's what you like to watch?_ Charles asked uncertainly.

“It doesn't matter.”

Charles elected not to press the issue. Instead, he looked down at his right hand and flexed his fingers. _so i should...?_

“Use your non-dominant hand to start,” Mr. Lensherr said, sounding as detached as when he was describing lab procedure. “Press down just above the opening to stimulate the glands. You'll be wet enough that you shouldn't need to use anything else.”

Charles thought about this as he stared at the TV and watched Angel Face get the shit kicked out of him. _nothing about this in the pamphlet_ , he finally grumped.

A flittering sense of amusement from Mr. Lensherr. “There's a pamphlet?”

 _yes, and apparently it's useless_. Charles snorted to himself and then, haltingly, opened his legs and hitched his knees up. With his first two fingers, he massaged his perineum. When he felt the first gush of wetness, he drew his hand back with a reflexive, _ugh_! Mr. Lensherr's response was a mental twitch back, as if he'd been slapped. _sorry_ , Charles thought. His fingers searched out the spot where he'd left off, and he sighed as some of the aching need between his legs was eased.

“Now touch yourself,” Mr. Lensherr instructed. “Inside and out.”

Charles rubbed the thumb of his right hand over the tip of his cock as he slowly, carefully, worked the middle finger of his left hand up into his ass. When he crooked his finger, he felt a sharp burst of pleasure that shocked his hips into the air. “Oh,” he groaned and screwed his eyes shut. “Oh, oh, oh.” Desperately, he undulated into his own touch. Within moments, he was cresting over into orgasm, panting and twitching as a small amount of fluid shot from the head of his cock and coated his fingers.

And yet, he still wasn't satisfied. Gingerly, Charles began to pump his finger in and out of himself. He sighed as warmth tingled up his spine. Under his slick fingertips, his cock hummed and throbbed at just the right edge of painful. After a short time, he discovered that his ass was loose and slippery enough to admit a second finger. Worming his ring finger inside to join his middle finger, Charles let out a loud shout of approval. He'd never given any serious thought to how satisfying being full would feel, and now he couldn't imagine how he'd ever managed to commit such an oversight. He crooked his fingers together, rubbing the sleek, yielding walls of muscle, and his nerves sang out in harmony with the sensations from his cock. Within minutes he was coming again, writhing and moaning, Mr. Lensherr entirely forgotten until, panting in the first flush of the afterglow, he heard Mr. Lensherr think, _g-o-o-d?_

 _um_ , Charles thought as he looked down at his sticky hands and abdomen, _yes_.

“I'm glad,” Mr. Lensherr said aloud, and both he and Charles winced to hear the edge in his voice. “But I—I should really go.”

 _yes_ , Charles thought lazily. _my sister will be home soon_.

“Of course,” Mr. Lensherr said, stalking back to the front door. “Goodbye, Charles.”

 _'bye. and... thanks for checking on me._

Mr. Lensherr stiffened as he was about to pull the door shut behind him. “Don't mention it,” he muttered.

Charles smiled and looked down at himself, admiring the way his t-shirt was rucked up to his armpits, the way his come had made a wet little pool next to his navel, the way his white thighs shifted as he stretched out his legs. He thought, with a touch of meanness, that Mr. Lensherr would admire the view too, if only he were allowed to see it.

He was still in bed, recovering, when he experienced a frisson of pleasure that wasn't his. Charles's eyes snapped wide open and his mind ratcheted into higher gear, searching for the source. He thought at first that Mr. Lensherr might have been lingering in the drive, or even that he was picking up the stray thoughts of a neighbor, but the harder he concentrated, the more evident it became to Charles that what he was receiving was coming from farther away than next door. He felt another ripple inside of him—so similar to what he felt when he touched himself and yet, somehow, indelibly different—and knew instinctively that it must have come from Mr. Lensherr, wherever he had gone. He tried to hold on to the sensation, and at the same time root out more.

Charles inhaled sharply and dug his heels into the mattress as his body was flooded with Mr. Lensherr's thoughts. He was too far from the man to know exactly where he was or what had happened since he'd left Charles's house, but it was all too easy to tell that he was masturbating fast and hard to thoughts of boys in heat, boys who weren't quite Charles but who looked close enough that Charles, on a whim, slyly inserted the image of himself, legs open, stomach painted with his own come, into Mr. Lensherr's rotation. Mr. Lensherr's libido pounced on this picture, made it more, added soft, mewling cries as he lowered his mouth between those wide-open thighs. Charles echoed the noises that Mr. Lensherr's fantasy made, allowing himself the luxury of full-immersion as he closed his eyes and teased the over-sensitive head of his cock. He imagined a warm mouth closing over his cock, soothing him, and felt Mr. Lensherr's whine of need shiver through his own body. _let go_ , Charles prompted, and immediately his mind was flooded with sensations of relief and satisfaction so strong that they pushed Charles into a small orgasm that he hadn't been expecting. Still, he relaxed into it, curling his toes as all his muscles tensed, and then going limp once the shudders of pleasure began to ebb. He rolled over to a less damp spot on his bed. The smooth feeling of his cool sheets on his skin made him tremble and burrow into the fabric, as if the mound of his comforter would disgorge another person if he searched hard enough, someone who would hold and soothe him.

Then, abruptly, his mind was caught in a turmoil of Mr. Lensherr's regret and self-disgust. Charles saw Mr. Lensherr look down at the come on his hand and on his seat, and he realized for the first time that Mr. Lensherr was still in his car, stopped in a parking lot somewhere between Charles's home and his destination. Charles bit his lip and hugged his pillow as he tried to decipher the rest of Mr. Lensherr's tangled emotions. Guilt, certainly, for daring to be anywhere near Charles while he was in heat. Failure and humiliation and dirtiness mingled with affection and worry for Charles. It all made Charles wince, bury his face in his pillow, and think _it's ok, it's ok, it's ok_ over and over until Mr. Lensherr started the car and pulled out of his range.

Charles laid in bed and dozed until he heard Raven come home. As she banged around downstairs, feeding the cat and getting a snack, Charles got up, switched off the TV, and went to take a shower. He stared at himself in the bathroom mirror, trying to see if he looked any different, but all he saw was the same baby face, messy hair, and freckled nose and shoulders that he usually did. Examining himself in the full-length mirror on the back of the door, Charles was dismayed to find that his body looked far less sexy from an upright angle, a gawky teenage boy rather than an omega sex kitten hot enough to star in one of Mr. Lensherr's videos. He shook his head, shrugged, stuck out his tongue and scrunched up his nose, then got in the shower and washed away all the sweat and come from his eventful afternoon.

When he went to get dressed afterward, Charles indulged himself and chose his tightest pair of jeans and a soft, oversized sweatshirt with no t-shirt underneath. As he left his room, he grabbed his backpack by one strap and swung it onto his back. He was barefoot, and so he wiggled his toes in the plush carpet as he made his way downstairs. Raven had set up camp at the kitchen table, spreading out her Spanish homework in an untidy arc. “Hey,” Charles said as he went to the refrigerator and ripped a string cheese out of the pack.

“Hey,” Raven said. She looked up at Charles and frowned. “Miss Frost said you were sick.”

“Yeah, uh,” Charles stalled as he ripped the plastic off his cheese. “I kind of fainted? So they sent me home. But I think it was just low blood sugar or something. From not eating breakfast.” Methodically, he began to peel and eat the cheese.

“Better now?”

“Mostly.” Charles set his backpack on the floor and fell into the nearest chair. “How was your day?”

“Boring. Stupid.” Raven huffed and blew a lock of blonde hair off her forehead. It had been pink that morning, but their mother had made Raven change it before leaving the house. “Same old school stuff.” She looked up and squinted at Charles. “Don't pretend like you care.”

“Sorry,” Charles said with a grin. “In the future, I'll try to care less about you.”

“You do that,” Raven said.

As Raven went back to conjugating verbs, Charles pulled out his laptop and emailed his organic chemistry professor to tell her that he'd gotten sick in the middle of the day, which was why he missed the afternoon lecture. Then he sent Hank a message on Gmail chat, asking if he could have the chem notes and apologizing for not letting him know that he wouldn't make it to class. “its cool,” Hank wrote back. “ms frost told me you went home so i didnt hang around. nbd. forwarding notes now. just dont miss next lab or I keel joo.” Charles went over the word document that Hank sent and skimmed the chapter in the textbook, feeling fairly confident about his ability to perform in the lab. Then he did his calculus homework. By the time he was done, Kurt and his mother were both home and he and Raven were being kicked out of the kitchen.

When he sat down to dinner, Charles was already squirming with the need to touch himself again. As soon as he could, he excused himself, grabbed his backpack, and dashed upstairs. Once he was safely alone in his room, he shed his jeans with a moan of relief and flopped down onto his bed. His soft sweatshirt now seemed far too hot, and he struggled to pull it off. Once he was satisfactorily naked, he began to touch himself again, the fingers of his left hand again finding their way between his legs to finger his ass. It took two more orgasms that night before he was ready to go to sleep, and he was still awoken at three a.m. to masturbate away the last twinges of need from his first heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit where credit is due: Charles watching _300_ came about because of [this interlude](http://xmen-firstkink.livejournal.com/3278.html?thread=6340814#t6340814) in the original fill for this prompt. I read that and thought, oh, well... of _course_ that would be baby gay Charles's guilty pleasure.
> 
> Also, please don't look too closely at my pseudo-science. It's just goofy.


	5. Chapter 5

The next day, Charles spent his lunch period in Mr. Lensherr's classroom, making up the lab he'd missed on Wednesday. Mr. Lensherr explained the process to him as quickly as he possibly could, then retreated to the safety of his desk to grade quizzes. Charles eyed him over his graphing calculator. Mr. Lensherr did not look up.

That morning, Charles had gone with the tight jeans—rescued from their heap on the floor—and a button-down shirt with a sweater vest. Charles had to admit that, while the jeans gave him something to work with, his shirt situation was going to need to be rethought. Still, it was better than nothing, and so with exaggerated casualness he made his way to the other side of the lab table, where he kicked the stool off to the right and leaned over the counter top, pushing his ass out in Mr. Lensherr's general direction. Surreptitiously, he watched for any sort of reaction from Mr. Lensherr in the mirror at the back of the classroom, and was practically giddy when he glanced up from his equation to see Mr. Lensherr giving him a once-over. Charles shifted his weight from one foot to the other and had to stifle a giggle when Mr. Lensherr's eyes followed the movement. He ate a couple of baby carrots and grape tomatoes out of his lunch bag, puzzled over his efforts to plug his lab results into the equation they were working with, then sighed and stood up straight. He took his notebook over to Mr. Lensherr's desk and stood in front of it, waiting to be acknowledged. Finally, he had to clear his throat. “Um, Mr. Lensherr?”

Mr. Lensherr did not look away from his current quiz. “Yes?”

Charles set his notebook down on top of the quizzes that Mr. Lensherr had already gone over. “I'm having a problem getting the equation to work out when I enter my results.”

After a moment of staring at Charles's work, Mr. Lensherr looked up. “Seriously?” he asked. Charles shrugged. “You're plugging your x results into the spot for y.” Mr. Lensherr used his red pen to draw a helpful arrow indicating the mistake. “Pretty dumb, Charles.”

“Oops,” Charles said, simpering a little as he reached for his notebook. “I guess I'm just having trouble concentrating.”

Mr. Lensherr did not look amused. He kept his hand on Charles's notebook as he said, “I know that what happened to you yesterday was pretty important. But you shouldn't make the mistake of thinking that it is the most important thing in your life right now.” Mr. Lensherr leaned back in his chair and regarded Charles wearily. “You're brilliant, Charles. Not just smart. _Brilliant_. The idea that you would suppress that in order to ape a kind of dumb helplessness you think will appeal to others, well, it makes me feel ill.” He massaged one temple and looked down at his desk. “If you pull this shit on me again, you're getting detention.”

Charles wrung his hands together and bit the inside of his cheek to keep from crying. “I—I'm sorry,” he whispered. “I didn't mean to—”

“Yes, you did!” Mr. Lensherr said, bringing his palm down flat on his desktop. The thud made Charles flinch. “You've been 'meaning to' for the past twenty-five minutes!”

“I'm sorry,” Charles repeated.

“I'm not the one you should be apologizing to,” Mr. Lensherr said. “Apologize to yourself, and to the sub-standard work you've done on this lab.” He handed Charles his notebook back. “You have about twenty minutes before you have to start cleaning up,” he said, “so make it count.”

Charles felt numb. “OK,” he said, taking his notebook and walking back to his spot at the lab table. He pulled up one of the stools, sat down, took out a fresh sheet of notebook paper, and began to recopy his work, dutifully correcting his errors as he went. He finished just as he needed to start packing up, and so he disassembled the lab before going to Mr. Lensherr's desk and handing in his paper. The bell rang just as he was setting it down on top of Mr. Lensherr's pile of work to be graded, and Charles sprinted from the room before Mr. Lensherr could say another word to him.

***

Charles kept his head down until the end of the week and avoided talking to—or even making eye contact with—Mr. Lensherr at cross-country practice on Thursday and in class on Friday. On Saturday, he went to his human anatomy class at Mercy College in the morning, then spent his afternoon alternating between studying chemistry with Hank and playing _Mario Kart_ with Hank. On Sunday, he finished reading _Catcher in the Rye_ for his English class and made flashcards of his current French vocab, then took Raven to see _Fright Night_ at the dollar theater. They both agreed it was worth it to see David Tennant in leather pants. On the way home, they stopped and got ice cream, and Charles felt almost like his life had gone back to normal. Even the prospect of seeing Mr. Lensherr again on Monday didn't seem as dreadful as it had at the end of the previous week

To offset the college classes he was taking, Charles's schedule had several study hall periods worked into it—two scheduled back-to-back to allow him leave campus in the afternoon with Hank for their chem class, and another extra one to make sure he didn't exceed the allotted number of credits. So, for third period, Charles reported to the main office and worked as a student aide, which meant that he sat in a desk in the corner and doodled or did homework until someone told him to stuff envelopes or gave him an errand. About twenty-five minutes into the period on Monday, Charles was disturbed from his AP Government reading and told to run an envelope upstairs to Miss Frost. “Tell her that she needs to have those forms back to me by the end of the day,” the secretary instructed.

Charles took his time walking to Miss Frost's classroom, in the hopes that dawdling would turn a five-minute trip into a waste of ten minutes or more. He paused at the bulletin board outside of Miss Frost's classroom and pretended to read the poetry from her freshman composition class even as his mind drifted into the room, seeking out the minds inside. Rather than encountering twenty fourteen year olds, the only thoughts Charles sensed were those of Miss Frost and... Mr. Lensherr? He frowned as he recalled that Miss Frost had her planning period at this time. Did Mr. Lensherr also have third period free? He didn't remember.

 _Is that you, Charles?_ Miss Frost thought.

Charles pursed his lips and opened the classroom door without bothering to respond mentally. Miss Frost leaned her hip against the far edge of her desk and observed Charles from over her shoulder, while Mr. Lensherr relaxed in her chair, a mug of coffee in his hands. Charles shuffled at the door for a moment, trying to understand what he was seeing. He felt as if he had intruded on something that he was not meant for him; both teachers looked far more at ease than Charles was accustomed to seeing them. Moreover, there was a sense of closeness between them that made Charles feel as if the bulk of his stomach were being yanked in one direction while his esophagus was pulled in the other.

“Hello, Charles,” Miss Frost said. “Was there something you needed?” Mr. Lensherr took a sip of his coffee and watched Charles from over the rim. A piece of metal undulated in the air over the desk to Mr. Lensherr's left, at shoulder-height. Charles recognized the twisting, liquid form as Mr. Lensherr's version of a Zen garden. The entire scene was enough to make Charles forget the envelope he held in his sweaty fingers. “Charles?” Miss Frost cocked her head and thought, _Is something wrong?_

“Um.” Charles forced himself to walk over to Miss Frost, the envelope held as far in front of him as possible. “I, uh—I'm supposed to give you this.” She took it from his outstretched hand. Speaking too fast, Charles added, “And also you're supposed to turn those forms in to Mrs. McIntyre by the end of the day.”

“Thank you,” Miss Frost said.

Charles nodded and looked down at his feet. He was suddenly aware that he was wearing a saggy pair of khakis and a sweater that was far too big, making him look lumpy around the stomach and hips. It was too easy for him to imagine how he must look to Miss Frost and, more importantly, to Mr. Lensherr: like a dowdy, nerdy little kid. His face burned as he left the room, shutting the door behind him. He paused only long enough to hear them both laugh softly, to sense their gentle amusement at his awkwardness, before he took off down the hall at a run.

Relying on instinct, Charles felt ahead of him for any minds in the boys' bathroom by the stairwell. Luckily, it was empty, and he hit the door hard with his hands outstretched, banging it open, not slowing down until he'd reached the window at the far end of the long, narrow room. He leaned against the radiator and panted for a moment, then sniffed loudly and wiped his eyes. Miss Frost's and Mr. Lensherr's patronizing laughter had become magnified in his mind, made huge and mocking. Even worse was his new—but absolute—certainty that Mr. Lensherr preferred Miss Frost to him.

Charles's breath hitched as he struggled to tamp down his tears. Why shouldn't Mr. Lensherr prefer Miss Frost to him? She was sophisticated and beautiful and, as far as Charles knew, she was much closer to his age. He sobbed silently into the cuffs of his sweater sleeves, certain that everything he'd ever been told about Mr. Lensherr “imprinting” on him, every scrap of affection he'd ever sensed, had been a sick, disgusting, manipulative lie. What would Mr. Lensherr really want with an awkward, weird teenager like himself? “Asshole,” Charles snuffled to himself as he grabbed a paper towel and used it to sop up his tears. Then he soaked a second paper towel in cold water and held it against each eye in turn. It didn't help to bring down the swelling much, but it was better than nothing. He examined himself in the mirror, trying to tug a stubborn wave in his hair straight and pulling down the front of his sweater before finally giving up and leaving the bathroom to go down to his spot in the main office and wait out the last ten minutes of the period.

Having to get up and drag himself to Mr. Lensherr's classroom fourth period felt like the utmost torture, and Charles had to take a lot of deep breaths before he stepped inside, took his seat, and pulled out his notebook and graphing calculator. Still, once he managed to get that far without even the slightest wobbling of his bottom lip, he felt pretty pleased with himself. He opened his notebook to his homework and started to tear it out at the perforation with exaggerated care.

When Mr. Lensherr came and stood beside his desk, Charles kept his eyes on his homework. “Charles?” Mr. Lensherr said. “Is everything all right?”

“Why wouldn't it be?” Charles asked, fiddling with his pen.

Mr. Lensherr put his hands in his pockets and shifted his weight, apparently flustered by Charles's indifference. “Earlier you seemed upset.”

“Nope.” Charles dropped his pen, turned on his graphing calculator, and pulled up a game of _Bejeweled_. He figured that Mr. Lensherr would take the hint and leave him alone, but all he did was step back and hover nearby until the bell rang. For three very long minutes Charles didn't so much as glance away from the calculator's tiny screen. This display of willpower, he thought, deserved a medal, but what he got was Mr. Lensherr's complete avoidance once class began. _Good_ , Charles thought as he made a sour face down at his notebook. _Good, good, good_.

***

That afternoon at cross-country, Charles's mind whirred as he ran laps around the perimeter of the school and through the woods behind it. _I'm almost eighteen_ , he thought, _and I've never been on a date. I'm barely allowed to be independent. If I hadn't begged to learn how to drive, I wouldn't even have that_. He kicked a stray rock and startled a crow, which cawed indignantly at him and stretched its wings out to make several long lazy hops away. _No wonder they see me as a kid._ _ **Everyone**_ _sees me as a kid_.

But, as far as Charles could see, there wasn't a whole lot he could do about that. He couldn't make himself grown five more inches or put on twenty-five pounds of solid muscle. Even if he could, he would still have to go to high school every day for the rest of the year. With his AP classes and his classes at Mercy College, he didn't have the time to get a job. His mother and stepfather didn't want to let him have a car of his own. He supposed that he could stop playing videogames with Hank on the weekends, but he didn't think that would do anything but make him more miserable.

After practice, Charles found himself in the locker room, staring at his ill-fitting sweater and worn-out khakis, and it occurred to him that at least there was one thing he could change.

On his walk home, he texted his sister: “are you busy tonight?” He didn't exactly expect his little sister to have pressing plans on a Monday evening, but he still thought he'd better check and make sure she didn't have a procrastinated assignment due the next day.

“no. y?” she texted back almost immediately.

“i need new clothes and i require your guidance,” he told her. “i wanna go after dinner if mom says ok.”

“awsum,” she sent back.

***

An hour and a half later, Raven was sitting in the passenger seat of their mother's car and giving Charles a very dubious look. “Really? The Westchester?” Charles shrugged one shoulder and beat out a short, casual rhythm on the top of the steering wheel. “I guess we're not going to Sears then, huh?”

“I wanted to try something different,” Charles explained as he parked.

“And expensive.”

“Mom gave me her credit card.”

Raven shrugged and followed him into the mall without further comment, but when Charles tried to lead her into Burberry, she dug in her heels. “Charles, no way,” she hissed.

“I'm only going to look,” he said. The male models and mannequins for Burberry had the same skinny-legged, willowy quality that Charles saw when he looked into his own mirror, and Charles coveted a fraction of their poise and sophistication. “Anyway, it's not as if we can't afford it.”

Raven said nothing, although she smirked when Charles checked the price on a sweater and gasped audibly. Still, she waited while Charles tried on the comparatively cheaper jeans and trousers and gave her opinion when it was requested. But when Charles selected a pair of each to purchase, she grabbed his shoulder. “Charles, do you really think Mom isn't going to notice you spending four hundred dollars on pants?”

“Actually, yeah,” he said.

“OK, but Kurt is definitely going to notice, even if she doesn't.”

Charles wriggled out of her grasp. “Let him. I don't care. I'll use my mind powers on him,” he said, putting his first two fingers to his temple and grinning. Raven did not look convinced, so Charles added, “Oh come on, I've been the perfect little son for how long, now? This is my rebellion.”

“Your rebellion is spending way too much money on clothes?” Raven crossed her arms. “I think that's the gayest thing to ever come out of your mouth.”

“Well,” Charles said with a sly smile, “I guess I'm just a late bloomer.”

“So now you're out, proud, and fabulous?”

“Um. Something like that.”

***

In the end, Charles supplemented his Burberry purchases with several more pairs of far less costly skinny jeans from H&M, three clingy Henleys and a vest from Express, white v-neck t-shirts, underwear, and a pair of sunglasses from American Apparel, and finally a pair of Converse low-tops from Foot Locker. “Come _on_ ,” Raven whined as Charles tried on pair after pair of sneakers. “Now that we have all the ingredients to make you a hipster, can we _please_ go home?”

“Which should I get, the blue or the black?” Aside from the color, the sneakers were identical. “I think black would probably go with more, but I like the blue better...?”

“Oh god, Charles, just get the blue. You _like_ the blue.” Raven sunk down low in the chair next to Charles, stretching her legs out into the aisle. “Besides, you have about a billion blue sweaters.”

“What about my black sweaters?”

“So you wear your old shoes with those!” Raven beat a brief rhythm on the floor with her heels. “Will you just buy them already? You're gonna make me miss _Bones_.”

“I happen to know that you DVR that,” Charles said, but still he put the black shoes back on the shelf and went up to the counter to get the blue shoes. When he returned with his last bag of the evening, Raven vaulted herself out of the chair with a jubilant cry of, “Finally! And don't think we aren't getting milkshakes on the way home.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Charles grumbled as he struggled to shove his smaller bags into his larger bags and consolidate his haul. Raven took the smallest bag and led the way out to the car.

During the drive home from Cold Stone Raven stayed quiet, at first sucking down her milkshake, then chewing on the end of her straw and making the plastic of the lid squeal obnoxiously. When Charles turned onto their block, she took the straw out of her mouth and said, “I have to ask. Is all this about... you know?”

“Know what?” Charles asked, feigning distraction.

Raven lowered her voice to a whisper, as if she were preparing to say something indecent. “I mean, is it about the thing with Mr. Lensherr?”

“Why would you think that?” Charles said, plucking his own milkshake from the cupholder and taking a sip.

Raven's straw groaned as she pulled it slowly out of the lid, as if prolonging its agony. “I don't know,” she said, pausing to lick milkshake from the bottom half of the newly-liberated straw. “I guess because you'll graduate in spring? And, like, what's going to happen after that?” She shrugged. “And you've never cared about clothes. I mean, not _ever_. I've never even seen you try stuff on unless Mom made you. But—”

“Look, maybe I'm just sick of being a geek,” Charles said more sharply than he intended as he pulled into their driveway. “OK? It's not about Mr. Lensherr.” He put the car in park and looked over at Raven. She was staring at him, watching him intently, and Charles could feel her overwhelming curiosity enveloping him like a fog, urging him to tell her everything.

“Sure,” she said.

“I'm going to be eighteen soon,” he said, mentally pleading with her to drop the subject. “I just want to look less like a kid.”

She shook her head viciously, as if trying to dislodge him. “But what I'm saying is, what are you going to do _after_ —?”

“I don't know,” Charles said curtly. He got out of the car and slammed the door, then went back to the trunk to get his bags.

Raven got out as well and came to help him. “Don't take it out on me,” she said.

 _sorry_ , Charles thought as he handed her the lighter of his bags.

As they walked around to the back door, Raven said, “Do you even _like_ Mr. Lensherr?” Charles shot her a warning look. “I'm just asking. You never talk about that stuff.”

 _i know_ , Charles thought, jiggling his keys in the lock and shouldering open the door. _now shut up. i don't want mom and kurt to hear._

“If I come up to your room before bed—?”

“I promise nothing,” Charles said airily.

***

“Honestly, Raven, I really _don't_ know.” Charles tucked his knees under his chin. His fingers played over the cuffs of his flannel pajama pants, folding and then releasing the material over and over. “I'm not trying to be evasive, I swear.”

“Well,” Raven said, “at least he's handsome, right?” She perched in Charles's computer chair, her hair red, her skin blue, and her pajamas a deep hunter green. As always, Raven looked striking and unforgettable. Charles wasn't sure whether to envy her or feel blessed by his own much plainer looks. “I mean, he could have been gross.”

“He's OK, I guess,” Charles said, hunching his shoulders up.

“You 'guess?' Sorry, Charles,” Raven said with a shake of her head, “but on behalf of the straight girls at school, I regret to inform you that Mr. Lensherr is not just 'OK.'” She chewed on her thumbnail as she tried to gauge Charles's reaction, but Charles wouldn't look at her. “I mean, he's kind of severe, but still. He's hot. It's just a fact.”

“I don't think he likes me much,” Charles said. He tugged his comforter around him, making a nest for himself and trying to forget Mr. Lensherr's voice in his head, telling him to touch himself. “So it doesn't matter how hot he is.”

Raven tilted her head to the side. “But you said he imprinted on you. How could he not like you?”

Charles shrugged. “I'm too young for him, maybe. I don't know. It happens sometimes, personality conflicts in imprinted pairs.” No one talked about it much, but Charles knew from his extensive Internet research that alpha/omega pairs were like any other relationship: sometimes they turned out sour.

“It doesn't even sound like you _want_ him to like you.”

“I don't want him to hate me!” Charles cried. “It'd just be a lot simpler if... you know.”

“Oh, Charles,” Raven said. “Maybe you need to think about somebody else. Start crushing on someone and don't think about Mr. Lensherr.”

“I don't really get crushes.”

“But you like David Tennant.”

“Duh.” Charles rolled his eyes. “He's far away, and I never have to see him in the real world. It's different.”

“Right. It's different because you're a weirdo.”

“Quiet, you,” Charles said, reaching for the TV remote on the top of his nightstand. “It's time for _The Daily Show._ Want to stay and watch?”

“Duh.” Raven rearranged her features to look like Charles, then crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. Charles threw a pillow at her face. Raven's flesh rippled and changed back to normal. “Jerk.”

“Love you too,” Charles said, and scooted over on the bed so Raven could sit beside him and see the TV.

“You should talk to me about this stuff more often,” Raven said as Jon Stewart waved to the studio audience.

“If I promise to do that,” Charles said, “will you keep your mouth closed until the commercial?”

“Sure thing, boss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who is reading. I really, really didn't expect this to get the reception that it has, but I'm happy that people are apparently into it. The next chapter may take me a few days, so please bear with me. I'm coming close to the end of my stockpiled writing.


	6. Chapter 6

When Charles got dressed the next morning, he chose his new, far too expensive jeans and a cream-colored, long-sleeved Henley that clung to him in strange and unexpected ways. In the bathroom, he studied himself carefully for a moment before undoing the first two buttons on the neck of the Henley. He then combed his hair back from his forehead with some of his mother's mousse and hung his new sunglasses from the V of his shirt collar. Back in his bedroom, he slipped on his new shoes and grabbed his backpack, then thudded downstairs fifteen minutes earlier than he normally would have.

Raven sat at the kitchen table, making her way through a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios. Her hair was short, spiky, and bright green. She swallowed her current mouthful and said, “You're right. Those pants _do_ make it look like you have a nice butt. Or any butt.”

Charles glowered at her. “Mom's going to make you change that hair. And no way can you see my butt from there.”

“I can too.” Raven took a sip of her orange juice as Charles opened the pantry and got himself a granola bar. “You should undo all the buttons on that shirt. Then you'll really look like a Williamsburg hooker.”

“What would you know about what hookers look like in Williamsburg?” Charles said, dropping his backpack and concentrating on eating his granola bar without getting crumbs everywhere.

“Well, I know that Northface backpacks don't get anyone laid,” Raven said as she stood up.

“Maybe hikers,” Charles mumbled between bites. “People who like to be prepared.”

“I'm getting you my old messenger bag,” Raven called over her shoulder as she left the kitchen and vaulted her way up the stairs. Charles listened to her stomp around upstairs as he took out the peanut butter, jelly, and a loaf of whole wheat bread and began to make his lunch.

When Raven reappeared, Charles was just tucking his sandwich into his lunch bag along with carrot sticks, a bag of the fancy potato chips he liked, and a brownie from the batch he and Raven had made on Sunday night. Raven's messenger bag from the year before was olive green and had a red cross on the flap, but she had taken off all the pins and badges that had previously surrounded the cross. She held it out to Charles proudly. “Here,” she said, “this won't cover up your butt.”

Charles looked at her skeptically. They sometimes watched reruns of _M*A*S*H_ late at night during the summer when neither of them felt like sleeping. The show was, in fact, the whole reason that Raven had bought the bag for herself. “It will make me look like I just came from the 4077 th,” Charles said.

“So? Hawkeye was a total babe.”

“Yeah,” Charles agreed, “but Alan Alda I am not.”

Raven looped the strap over Charles's head, hanging the empty bag around his neck. “So use this to pretend you're Alan Alda. Then maybe you won't hunch over and shuffle your feet so much.”

“And maybe my jokes will be funny?” Charles added, grinning.

“Anything's possible.”

***

It wasn't as if Charles expected everyone to stop and stare when he walked into school that morning, but he was hoping for something more than just Hank looking up from their usual table in the cafeteria and saying, “Oh. You're going hipster.”

“It's not _that_ hipster,” Charles muttered as he fumbled with the messenger bag he'd conceded to trying out for the week.

“Then I'll save my comments for when you start wearing glasses frames with no lenses like Moira.”

“Good plan.” Charles pulled out his unfinished calculus homework and turned to the relevant chapter in his textbook. When he glanced up, Hank was still giving him an appraising look. “What?”

“Nothing,” Hank said with forced casualness. “Just... I wonder what Mr. Lensherr will think.”

Charles dropped his eyes back down to his notes on derivatives. “Probably nothing,” he said, then snapped, “Not that it's any of his business.”

“Right,” Hank said. But he shook his head slowly, as if he didn't quite believe that was the case.

Charles harrumphed, finished the problem he'd left off on the night before, and set his pen down. The cheerleaders were currently fundraising by selling over-sized lollipops, the kind that came in flavors like strawberry cheesecake, blue raspberry, and—Charles's favorite—mocha latte. “You want a sucker?” he asked Hank. “It's three for a dollar.”

“I'll take a pink lemonade if you're buying.”

Keeping in mind that he was supposed to be Hawkeye Pierce now, even without the bag to back him up, Charles strode as casually as he dared over to the table the cheerleaders had set up by the trophy cases. He picked out two mocha lattes and a pink lemonade and handed his dollar to a peppy blonde junior who had been in his public speaking class the year before.

She smiled brightly at him as she put his money in the cash box. “Thanks!” she said, then pursed her already pouty lips. “Hey... I know you, right? Weren't you in my photography class?”

Charles smiled back and tried to continue looking cool even though he was holding three lollipops. “Uh, it was public speaking, actually. Last spring.”

“Right! Of course!” She laughed and batted her eyelashes. Charles could tell that she didn't actually remember him in the slightest. Somehow, he wasn't too bothered by this. “Oh my gosh, that class was _way_ harder than I expected!”

“I'm pretty sure I remember you doing OK,” Charles assured her, relaxing into the attention. “I mean, your one speech about fashion in _Mad Men_ was really good.”

“Thanks!” She leaned forward in her metal folding chair. “Do you like _Mad Men_? I love it!”

“Yeah,” Charles lied. “It's a great show.” He'd only ever seen a single episode, caught while channel-surfing one night, and it had been in the middle of some complicated plot he hadn't been able to follow. But a casual dip inside the girl's mind was enough to show him what she liked about the series: the clothes, the 1960s glamour, Jon Hamm. _Isn't he a little old for you?_ Charles thought snidely, then felt guilty at his own hypocrisy.

“It is totally great!” She agreed. “I just love how it looks, you know?”

“Totally,” Charles said.

The first bell rang, and students started vacating the cafeteria in loud, chaotic clumps. Charles waved to the cheerleader as he started back toward where he'd left his books with Hank. “See you around,” he called. She waved back as she stood. She was wearing her uniform and the little skirt swished around the top of her firm thighs.

Hank met him halfway, having stuffed Charles's calculus book and homework back into his bag. He handed it to Charles, who pressed the pink lemonade lollipop into Hank's hand in exchange. “What took you so long?”

“The girl at the table was talking to me,” Charles explained. “We had a class together last year. Uh, I think her name is Laurie?”

Hank pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “What were you talking about?” he asked as they headed toward the staircase to go up to the second floor.

“Stuff,” Charles said. “ _Mad Men_.”

“You don't watch _Mad Men_.”

Charles held one of his lollipops up to his lips. “Shh,” he said.

“Was she _flirting_ with you?” Hank asked, incredulous.

“I don't know,” Charles answered, trying to sound like he didn't care. _Be cool_ , he reminded himself. _Like Hawkeye. And the lollipop is a martini_.

Hank rolled his eyes. “Why didn't you just, you know, look and see if she was?”

“That would be unethical,” Charles said loftily, but failed to mention that he'd taken a peek inside her mind to evaluate her relationship with _Mad Men_.

“Argh, _Charles_. What's the point of being able to do it if you never do?”

 _i use it_ , Charles thought to Hank. _i use it all the time_.

“But not for anything cool,” Hank sighed. He stopped at the foot of the stairs and turned his head , craning his neck to look over the crowd at the girl Charles had been talking to.

“I do plenty of cool things,” Charles said, irritated. He forced Hank to freeze, one big foot in the air, poised to fall on the first step up, his neck still stretched at a ridiculous angle. A few of the passing students pointed at him and laughed to themselves. Charles held Hank in place for just long enough to make his point, then released him. Hank stumbled forward abruptly and caught himself on Charles's shoulder. “But I don't like controlling people much. It doesn't feel... nice.”

“So that girl,” Hank said after a moment. “Pretty hot.”

“Sure,” Charles said, a little annoyed by the sudden change of subject. “If that's what you like.”

“Not as hot as your sister, though,” Hank offered as they stopped at Charles's locker so he could grab his book for first period.

Charles made a face. “Even when she has green hair?”

“Especially then,” Hank said. “Do you think all the hair on her body changes color?”

“Ew, Hank.” Charles made another, even worse face as he slammed his locker door shut. “You're talking about my baby sister.”

“Your _hot_ baby sister,” Hank corrected.

“Oh my god,” Charles said. “She literally just turned fifteen last month.”

“So imagine how she'll look when she's eighteen!”

“Gross. Really gross.” They came to Charles's English class and, before Hank could walk away, Charles said, “FYI, her pit hair doesn't change color. Not unless she wants it to.”

Hank wrinkled his nose. “Now who's being gross?”

“Still you, Hank,” Charles said. “Still you.”

***

Charles didn't get to unwrap his first lollipop until just before physics. It was slightly too big for his jaw, so he stuffed it into one cheek like a hamster and didn't give it a second thought. He was so preoccupied with the English essay that was due the next day, as well as with the upcoming test in AP Government, that he was barely aware of his new outfit anymore, let alone how he looked trying to get his mouth around the sucker.

When Charles walked into physics, Mr. Lensherr glanced up from his desk. He frowned, as if something about Charles had puzzled him, and Charles looked away as he wove between the desks to his seat. He took out his notebook and his calculator, and removed the lollipop from his mouth to regard it for a moment before licking it in earnest, trying to reduce its size to something more manageable. As he labored, he opened his notebook and began checking over his math on the homework problems.

He didn't look up again until Mr. Lensherr rapped on the top of his desk with his knuckles. “Please put the sucker away before class begins,” he said in a voice that was not quite a whisper.

Charles had to suppress a shiver. “Why?” he asked before he could stop himself.

Mr. Lensherr stared down at him, his face carefully neutral. “Because it's a distraction,” he said before moving on.

Cheeks burning, Charles obeyed. He retrieved the crumpled up plastic wrapper from his front pocket and used it to bind up the lollipop, which he then stuck in the front pocket of his messenger bag. He pretended to go back to looking over his homework, but instead watched as Mr. Lensherr walked back to the front of the room and straightened the already neat piles of handouts for the day's lesson. _I hate you_ , Charles thought. Mr. Lensherr looked up, as if he'd just heard someone call his name, and Charles hurriedly returned his attention to his notebook.

When the bell rang at the end of the period, Charles defiantly took his time unwrapping the lollipop again and shoving it into his mouth. By the time he finished packing away his things, he was the last person in the room aside from Mr. Lensherr, who stood in the door and observed the students passing in the hallway until Charles came up beside him. “You look nice today,” he said as he stood aside to let Charles pass.

Charles took the lollipop from his mouth. It passed his lips with an audible pop that made him wince. “Uh... thanks?”

“You're welcome,” Mr. Lensherr said.

Charles hurried down the hall to his locker. Hank was waiting there with Moira, who was also in their organic chem class at Mercy College. The three of them usually ate lunch together, then carpooled to their class. Moira raised her eyebrows at Charles as he spun his lock open and dumped his books from physics and French. “New look?” she asked.

“Just trying something different,” he muttered around the lollipop.

“Well, I approve,” she said. Moira was cooler than either him or Hank, and had cultivated a personal style she called “nerd chic,” which seemed to consist of a lot of t-shirts featuring Harry Potter and video game or webcomic characters; she paired these with jeggings, big black hoodies, and the hated glasses without lenses. “It's good to see you wearing clothes that actually fit.”

“What are you, his mom?” Hank grumbled.

“My mom doesn't really care what I wear,” Charles said, closing his locker and leaning against the door. “I could probably become a nudist and it would take her a few days to catch on.”

“I bet Mr. Lensherr would like that,” Hank said mildly.

“Shut up,” Charles said, kicking out at Hank's shins. Hank put his palm flat on Charles's forehead and easily held him at bay until Charles gave up his assault. “Anyway,” Charles laughed, a little breathless, “I would just make him think I was wearing clothes.” He threw Moira a reassuring smile, since she always seemed a little nervous when the conversation turned mutant-related and left her without anything to contribute.

She smiled back. “Maybe you're doing it right now,” she said with a sly wiggling of her eyebrows.

“Maybe I am!” Charles agreed.

They went down the stairs together to the cafeteria, and Moira bought a turkey sandwich in a plastic wrapper. Then the three of them took Hank's car to his house, which was on the way to their chem class. Charles's house was also on the way, but the couple of times they had stopped to eat there, Moira and Hank had both seemed uncomfortable with the sheer scale of Charles's home. Hank's house, on the other hand, was smaller, cozier, and his mother stocked up on good junk food. At Charles's house, the cupboards were mostly bare unless Charles himself remembered to go to the store and get chips, cookies, apples, and granola bars.

While Hank heated up leftover lasagna for himself, Charles and Moira sat on the same side of his kitchen table and talked about their classes. Talking about school soon turned into talking about the people at school who annoyed them, which then turned into talking about what was on TV the night before when Hank took a seat across from them. Twice while they were eating, Moira's hand brushed Charles's, and each time they had looked up at one another and then looked away quickly.

***

That afternoon, Charles was heading to his locker to get his gym bag for cross-country when he saw Mr. Lensherr leaving the building carrying a box of tests to grade in one hand and his keys in the other. On impulse, Charles followed him out into the teacher's parking lot, which was already half-empty. Mr. Lensherr stopped at a dark blue Chevy, unlocked the trunk—Charles wondered why he had to use his key, then thought that maybe it was for the same reason that Charles still asked people what they were thinking—and dropped the box inside. He was about to slam the trunk shut when he caught sight of Charles observing him from a careful distance. “Hello, Charles,” he said evenly. “Did you need something?”

Charles hugged himself. It was cooler out than he'd expected, and he wished he had thought to bring a sweater along that morning. Mr. Lensherr watched him, head cocked, waiting for an answer, and so Charles opened his mouth and said the first thing that came to mind: “I look ' _nice?'_ ”

Mr Lensherr stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending. “Yes?” he finally said, hedging the word at the end in case it was the wrong answer.

Charles smirked, as if at some irony only apparent to him. “Great,” he said, bobbing his head. “You're a real creep.”

“What?” Mr. Lensherr closed the lid of the trunk and leaned on it. “What did I do?”

“You come into my house,” Charles said, trying to keep his voice from shaking and almost succeeding. “You come in _while I'm vulnerable_ , and then the next day you act like I'm some sort of nuisance to you—”

“Now, Charles—”

“No! It's your turn to listen to me!” Charles stomped his foot and clutched his fingers in the thin material of the Henley. He knew he was being less than mature, but at the same time it felt wonderfully cathartic to finally be able to yell at Mr. Lensherr. “Then you and Miss Frost—I _saw_ you—and you were _laughing_ at me.”

“Charles, we weren't—”

“Is that what you do when you have nothing on your schedule?” Charles sneered. “You get cozy with Miss Frost and talk about what a dumb little kid I am?”

Mr. Lensherr's expression had gone completely dumbfounded, his eyes wide and his lips parted as he struggled to answer Charles's accusations. “Well—”

“And then you tell me that I look 'nice?'” Charles blew out a frustrated breath and swiveled his torso from side to side, folding his hands under his armpits as he looked away from Mr. Lensherr. “You're a creep,” he said, muttering the words into one shoulder with a satisfied sense of finality.

“Do you really think that Miss Frost and I—?” Mr. Lensherr shook his head. “Charles, we're coworkers. Friends, I suppose. Sometimes we talk about our students, but—” He stopped and shrugged his shoulders, then turned his attention to the hand that still rested on his trunk, as though he were too ashamed face Charles head-on.

“So you do talk about me!” Charles crowed, feeling oddly triumphant at having his suspicions confirmed.

“Of course,” Mr. Lensherr said. “You're one of the things we have in common.” He looked bewildered, lost, and, to Charles, older than he normally did.

“Well, stop,” Charles said. His own petulance made him feel powerful. “I don't want you to.”

Mr. Lensherr rubbed the back of his neck as if it ached. “You don't need to be jealous,” he murmured.

“Jealous!” Charles let out an aggrieved huff. He opened his mouth wide as he spoke, his lips twisting into a smile that was not really a smile. “Who do you think I'm jealous of?” Mr. Lensherr didn't answer. “Well, I'm not!” Charles said. “I'm not jealous of anyone!”

“Good,” Mr. Lensherr said, “because there's no reason for you to be.”

Mr. Lensherr's patient suffering of Charles's indignation only made Charles want to lash out further. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

“That I care about you,” Mr. Lensherr said slowly, as if the answer to Charles's question had only just revealed itself to him. “And you shouldn't ever doubt that.”

“You care about me,” Charles repeated sarcastically. “So what? You love me? Or you just want to fuck me?” For an instant, Charles was afraid he'd gone too far. Inside he cringed at the very idea of having said something so vulgar in front of an adult, an adult who was also his teacher. But on the outside he remained calm, protected by his new clothes and his new, cool, more grown-up persona.

Mr. Lensherr did not seem put out by what Charles had said. He just looked at him with sad eyes and shrugged again. “I care about you.”

“But what does that _mean_?” Charles insisted.

“I don't know,” Mr. Lensherr said in an uncharacteristically quiet voice. “I'm sorry I can't give you a better answer.”

“Why?” Charles couldn't stop demanding answers now, after all the years he'd spent not demanding very much at all from Mr. Lensherr. “Is it because you can't touch me? Is that why you're not sure?” Mr. Lensherr kept his chin tucked down toward his chest, but lifted his eyes to meet Charles's. It was the most guilty look Charles had ever seen, which made him pity Mr. Lensherr more than he probably should have, or at least more than he had ever pitied him before. He recalled Mr. Lensherr's conviction that Charles would spend four years making his life hell, all because of something neither of them could control. “So kiss me,” Charles said. He took a step toward Mr. Lensherr, who took an instinctive step back. “Figure it out.”

“Don't fool yourself, Charles,” Mr. Lensherr said. “Real life doesn't work like fairy tales.”

“What?”

“Kisses aren't magic.” Mr. Lensherr frowned. “To touch you now... well, it wouldn't solve anything. It would just get me into trouble.”

“But I'm telling you to,” Charles wheedled. “I'm giving you permission.” He wasn't sure why he was prodding at this gulf between them, trying so hard to close their carefully maintained physical distance, except that now more than ever he wanted to have Mr. Lensherr put his arms around him. He wanted things to be sure and settled, whether they were together as a couple or not.

“That means nothing,” Mr. Lensherr said.

“You don't respect me!”

“You're not behaving like an adult.”

“It's not unreasonable for me to want to know now,” Charles said after a deep breath. “I have to start planning the rest of my life, don't I?”

Mr. Lensherr shoved his hands into his pockets and blew out his cheeks in frustration. “Exactly,” he said. “And I don't want you to feel like you have to plan your life around me.”

“I don't,” Charles protested. Mr. Lensherr shook his head. “What? What does _that_ mean?”

“I just want you to know what you're getting into.”

“So do I,” Charles said, taking several steps forward. This time, Mr. Lensherr did not try to back away. “I won't tell anyone,” Charles added.

Mr. Lensherr looked pained. “I don't want you to have to promise that.”

“Well, I am,” Charles said. Mr. Lensherr's closeness was beginning to make him anxious, but in a way that felt more good than bad. “Please.” Charles rubbed his upper arms and rocked back on his heels. His messenger bag was a heavy weight beside his hip, and he played with the strap, moving the bag further back. “This is making me crazy.”

“It's because you were in heat so recently,” Mr. Lensherr said. “You'll get over it.”

“Maybe,” Charles said. He chewed his lower lip and thought of Moira sitting next to him at Hank's kitchen table, telling him all about why he had to start watching _Community_ if he knew what was good for him. “If I were to try dating someone else,” he said, “would you be mad?”

“No,” Mr. Lensherr said. “Please date, if that's what you want.”

“I want you to kiss me,” Charles insisted.

Mr. Lensherr took his hands out of his pockets and wiped his palms off on the front of his trousers. He glanced around the parking lot, but there was no one else there. The last bell had rung almost twenty minutes earlier, and it was nearly time for extracurricular activities to begin. When Charles felt Mr. Lensherr's hands on his shoulders, he closed his eyes and let his head fall back.

At first, Mr. Lensherr's kiss was very light and hesitant, more avuncular than sexual, and so Charles rose onto his tiptoes to deepen it. He breathed in through his nose and smelled Mr. Lensherr's aftershave and smiled a little against Mr. Lensherr's lips. But when he opened his mouth and tried to use his tongue, Mr. Lensherr pulled away. “Enough,” he said, and Charles was pleased to hear a rasping edge to his voice that hadn't been there before. “Go get ready for practice.”

“OK,” Charles said, then turned and jogged back into the building without looking behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have [a tumblr](http://countnocount.tumblr.com) now, which is more or less a place for me to put my art (and, you know, reblog pretty pictures like the cool kids do). Eventually there will be at least one drawing for this story, I just haven't made it there yet.


	7. Chapter 7

Wednesday night, Moira invited herself over to Charles's to study for the AP Government exam the next day. They shared the couch in the den and spread their notes and flashcards over the coffee table. After about an hour of work, Moira jokingly draped her legs over Charles's lap, but then didn't move them for more than ten minutes. Charles found the snug contact between them to be as cozy as it was baffling.

The next day at lunch, when they mentioned having studied together, Hank raised his eyebrows at Charles. That evening, he messaged Charles in Gmail chat: “so.”

“so what?” Charles wrote back.

“you + moira...”

“what about us?”

“i think shes got a heart on for new n improvd charles,” Hank replied.

Charles frowned. “we're friends.”

“yeah but idk dude, shes always been sort of into you but you didnt put urself out there.” When Charles didn't respond right away, Hank added, “cuz of mr lensherr i guess.”

“not just because of him,” Charles wrote.

“whatevr. moira's hot even if she wears those dum glasses.”

“what do you mean, into me?”

“idk she always sits by you and she wasnt gonna get mcds with alex n sean n armando n everybody after finals last year until she knew u were coming.” Charles wasn't sure what to make of this information, so he switched tabs in Firefox to check Facebook. His Gmail tab flashed after a moment. Hank had added: “you should ask her out.”

“i'm gay,” Charles responded. He felt a little annoyed, not because Hank had apparently forgotten about his sexual preference, but more because he'd actually gone and given words to something that Charles had already thought about and rejected. “she'd think were were going as friends. which we would be.”

“how do u know ur totally gay?” Hank wrote. “try it and see. like veggies.”

“i already like vegetables. besides, how do you know you're totally straight?” Charles struck back.

“i dont.” Charles hands hovered over the keyboard as he thought about how he should respond. Before he could make up his mind, Hank added: “ask herrrrrrrrrrrr.”

“only if you ask a boy out,” Charles wrote.

“k.” Nearly a minute went by before Charles's chat window dinged again. “hey,” Hank had written, “wanna go see real steel on saturday?”

Charles grinned. “lol idiot. but ok.”

“:)”

***

During lunch on Friday, Charles asked Moira if she wanted to go see a movie. They decided to go and see _Dream House_ that evening, and Moira gave Charles her address so he could come pick her up. They decided to go a little early and get pizza at a place by the theater. Charles was surprised to find that, as the day went on, he actually started to feel excited about his date.

After school he went home, showered, changed his shirt, and added a black vest that he hoped made him look cool. Raven poked her head into his room and raised her eyebrows when she saw how he was dressed. “What are you doing?”

“Going on a date,” Charles said.

Raven waggled her eyebrows up and down. “Ooooooh. With who?”

“Not your business,” Charles said, sitting at his desk and opening his laptop. He still had forty-five minutes before he had to leave to go to Moira's, and he planned to spend it looking at Reddit and checking Facebook.

“Fine,” Raven said. “Be that way.” She blew a raspberry and then said, “Are you going before dinner? Should I tell mom?”

“Could you?” Charles asked.

“Sure,” Raven said, but she still hung in the doorway. “So you're getting food?”

“Pizza,” Charles said, “And then going to see _Dream House_.”

“Daniel Craig,” Raven said. “Good choice. Can you bring me back a thing of SweetTarts?”

“Yes,” Charles said, “if you don't ask any more questions.”

“Cool,” Raven said, then traipsed off, leaving Charles's door half-open. He rolled his eyes and went back to looking at pictures of cats.

After about ten minutes, his own cat, Bustopher Jones, came and jumped in his lap. Charles petted him and sighed at the dark hairs that stuck to his white shirt. “Big Bus,” he said as he scratched the cat under his chin, “you are an annoyance.” Bustopher Jones purred and drooled on Charles's hand.

Fifteen minutes before he was supposed to be at Moira's, Charles set the cat on his bed, closed his laptop, and removed the traces of cat from his shirtfront with a lint roller. He went downstairs, got the keys from his mother, and promised to come right home after the movie was over.

When he got to Moira's, she was hovering behind the screen door, watching for him. She ran down the drive as soon as she saw Charles pull in. “Shouldn't I meet your parents?” Charles asked.

“Nah,” Moira said. She giggled. “Um, I kind of didn't tell them I was going with a boy... next time, though.”

“OK,” Charles said, although he felt like there wasn't any possible way he could come off as being much of a threat in the eyes of Moira's parents.

They drove to the plaza where the movie theater theater was. Charles parked and they went down the road to Bellizzi. The line wasn't too long, and they were seated at a little table by the window. They ordered sodas and a medium margherita pizza to share. It was good, Charles thought, but very much like the lunches they had at Hank's house, except that Hank wasn't there with them. When the check came, Charles paid, and Moira asked if he wanted her to pay for the movies. Charles told her not to worry about it.

The movie itself was mediocre and, Charles thought, not very scary at all. But about halfway through, Moira slipped her hand into his during one of the darker scenes and squeezed hard. Charles squeezed back and felt pleasantly capable, although he wasn't certain whether Moira was actually scared or just looking for an excuse to hold hands.

After the movie was over, they walked out into the lobby where Charles remembered to buy the box of SweetTarts he'd promised Raven. He and Moira smiled shyly at one another and discussed the movie's most disappointing elements, of which it had many. “It _could_ have been good,” Moira insisted. “It just wasn't.” Charles couldn't argue with that. They dawdled outside the theater for a while, walking up and down the block and just talking, before finally getting back into Charles's car.

When Charles pulled up in front of Moira's house, she undid her seatbelt but didn't get out. “So,” she said.

“Yeah,” Charles said. “It was fun.” Moira nodded. “Um, sorry if I'm being clueless, but... are we going out now?”

Moira looked uncomfortably knowing, as if she understood what Charles needed better than he did. “Do you want to?”

“It was nice,” Charles offered. The corner of Moira's mouth jerked up. “I think I wouldn't be opposed. I mean, if you're not.”

“I'm not,” Moira said. She leaned over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Text me,” she said as she got out of the car.

“I will,” Charles called after her. She slammed the car door shut, and he waited until she was safely inside her house before putting the car in gear and heading home.

***

On Saturday, he and Hank met at the same theater for a matinee showing of _Real Steel_. Hank managed to wait until they were seated with popcorn and sodas before asking. “So, how was your date?”

“Trying to live vicariously through me?”

“With Moira?” Hank looked up at the ceiling and scratched the side of his nose. “Maybe a little. But whatever you tell me, I'm going to be imagining her in a bikini.” He stuffed a handful of popcorn into his mouth as Charles snorted. “I'm just curious,” he said after he'd chewed it into something more manageable.

“It was nice,” Charles said.

“Just nice?”

“I guess we're going out now.”

“You sound so enthused.”

Charles shrugged. “I don't know. I've never gone out with someone before. It feels like normal, you know, except we held hands.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket. “I mean, last night I sent her pictures of my cat.”

“That's romantic.”

“She seemed to like them, but that's not the point.”

“Do you think about her naked?”

“Hank!” Charles covered his mouth and blushed while Hank laughed. “That's not funny! It's disrespectful!”

“You're such a prude,” Hank said. “That's like step one on the way to having sex: imagine the other person naked.”

“No, that's step one on the way to masturbating,” Charles said as he turned off his phone.

“You have to see the other person naked to have sex with them, though.”

“Absolutely incorrect,” Charles said. “I plan to have sex in a pitch-black room, and the more of our clothes we can keep on, the better.”

“And would this be with Moira? Or with Mr. Lensherr?”

Charles slugged him on the closest bicep. “Gross.”

“You're gross.”

“Because I don't want to think about sex all the time?”

“Yes,” Hank deadpanned. Charles slugged him again. “Ow!”

“You're the one who wants to have sex with my sister!” Charles hissed. “You're the gross one.”

“I don't want to have sex with her,” Hank corrected. “I want to worship her from afar.” Charles scoffed and took a sip of his drink. “But seriously,” Hank said, “you and Moira?”

“Yeah.” Charles shrugged. “For now. We'll see.”

“Just don't start, like, French-kissing at lunch or whatever.” Charles snickered. “No,” Hank continued, “I'm totally serious about this. Nothing cutesy.”

“OK, OK,” Charles said as the lights began to dim and the green screen before the first preview appeared. “No being cute in front of Hank.”

“I'm holding you to that,” Hank grumbled and fed another handful of popcorn into his mouth.

They settled into their default moviegoing pose: backs slumped down in the chairs, feet on the backs of the seats in front of them, and popcorn shifting laps every five minutes. Charles found the movie to be a loud, raucous mess, and he enjoyed every stupid minute of it, especially because he preferred Hugh Jackman to Daniel Craig. Though now that he and Moira were going out, he felt a little bit guilty whenever he thought about the men he found attractive.

After the movie was over, Charles went home and finished his reading for English and AP Government. He and Moira texted back and forth a little about _Real Steel._ Moira complained that none of the recent releases were any good and it was such a pain to have to wait until December for the second Sherlock Holmes movie. Charles was inclined to agree with her on that point. He was also relieved that Moira didn't try to talk about anything too serious, and hoped that it would stay that way.

***

That Tuesday after school, Charles wrapped up his circuit for cross-country around five o'clock. When he approached the bleachers he saw Mr. Lensherr sitting in his usual spot and, several rows up and to the left, he also saw Moira. She stood when she saw him coming and waved. Charles checked in with Mr. Lensherr, who grunted and scribbled the time down on his clipboard beside Charles's name. Charles then went to greet Moira, who met him halfway down the bleachers. “Hey,” he said.

“Hi,” she said. “Um, my meeting for Model U.N. got out a little early so I though I would see if you were still here.”

“That's cool,” Charles said. He panted and wiped the sweat from his forehead with one sleeve. It seemed as if he'd begun to sweat even more now that he had stopped and the wind no longer whisked it away. “Sorry, I must look pretty bad.”

“Nah,” she said, smiling. “You look like you've been exercising.” She pulled her hoodie tighter around her. “Is this good weather for running? It's so cold.”

“And running keeps you warm,” Charles said. He stepped down one row of bleachers to where his bag was and found his water bottle. He took a long drink and then shrugged. “Better than when it's really hot out.”

“I guess,” Moira said. She watched as Charles took another, shorter, pull of his water. “You're cute,” she said. Charles sputtered and some of his water went down his chin and darkened the front of his long-sleeved t-shirt. Moira laughed, covering her mouth with one hand. “Sorry, but, you know—” Her voice went quiet and she looked, no longer directly at Charles, but over his shoulder.

Charles turned to see what she was looking at, and saw Mr. Lensherr staring back, his mouth pressed into a hard line and his eyebrows drawn together. “Don't mind him,” Charles said, turning his attention back to Moira. “He's always sort of grumpy, right?”

“Right,” Moira said uncertainly.

“So what happened in Model U.N.?” Charles asked. Moira was just as eager to seize on something easy and neutral as he was, and soon she was explaining in earnest about the way Bill Stryker constantly managed to sidetrack things and make her life difficult. Charles pretended to listen, while at the same time sending a sharp thought in Mr. Lensherr's direction: _back off. you said i could date, so if you don't like it it's your own fault._

_a-g-i-r-l?_ Mr. Lensherr thought. Charles folded one arm behind his back and gave Mr. Lensherr the finger. After having kissed Mr. Lensherr, he now felt he had more leeway to talk back to him, and yet he was still relieved to hear Mr. Lensherr huff in an amused way. 

Nodding his head in the appropriate places, Charles let Moira finish complaining about how absolutely ridiculous all of Bill's proposals were as he took a sweatshirt out of his gym bag and put it on. He found listening to Moira's problems soothing, because they didn't much resemble any of his own. “You want to walk with me?” Charles asked during a break in her diatribe. He slung his gym bag over one shoulder. “I still need to get my backpack out of my locker, but then if you want to come over to my place we could hang out.”

“Sure,” Moira said, picking her own messenger bag up off the bench and putting the strap over her head. They walked down the stairs to the field together, and when they passed Mr. Lensherr he lifted his eyebrows but said nothing, for which Charles was very thankful. “I should make you a playlist,” Moira said. “For running.”

Charles smiled apologetically. “Sorry,” he said, “but we're not allowed to listen to music during practice.”

“Why not?”

“It's a safety thing.” Charles shrugged. “So we can hear cars, mostly.”

“Aw.” Moira looked dejected. “That sucks. It sounds boring.”

“I sort of like it,” Charles said. “It's meditative, I guess? Like, I get to just think about whatever I want.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Moira didn't seem convinced. 

“You could still make me a playlist,” Charles offered. “I'd listen to it.”

“You bet you will,” Moira said and took Charles's clammy hand as they walked into the building. “Because it's going to be the best damn playlist you ever heard.”

***

In early November, nearly a month later, he and Moira were lying on his bed on a Sunday afternoon, curled loosely together and watching Moira's  _Beetlejuice_ DVD. She kept leaning over to kiss him, which was fine because they often traded brief kisses, and Charles had even grown to find them soothing. But as the movie wrapped up, her kisses became longer, more lingering. Charles tried to keep up, but something about Moira's weight on him and the sweet taste of her lip gloss made him want desperately to escape. He fought the feeling, clenched his teeth against it, and that method worked well until Moira tried to stick her tongue in his mouth. He jerked his chin to one side, freeing his lips enough to say, “OK, no, stop. This isn't going to work.”

Moira sat up. “Yeah, I can't keep a straight face with that song on either.” She grabbed the remote off Charles's nightstand and stopped the DVD, mercifully cutting Harry Belafonte off mid-“shake, shake, shake Senora.” Then she slid her body back alongside Charles's, putting her arm around his chest. “Better?”

“I don't know.” Charles stuck his nose into the hair at the top of her head. “Smells nice,” he said.

Moira sighed. “What is it this time?” When Charles made a puzzled noise, she continued. “There's always something wrong, isn't there?”

“Nothing's wrong,” Charles said. He put his arm around Moira's waist, but couldn't bring himself to move his hand up to her breast. “I'm wrong. It's all me,” he admitted. “I'm sorry.”

Exasperated, she flung her head back onto the pillow. “Is this about the omega thing? Because seriously, I can deal with that.”

“I don't want you to have to deal with it,” Charles muttered. “ _I_ don't want to have to deal with it.”

“Well, you have to.” When Charles played with her hair instead of answering, Moira added, “Is this because of Mr. Lensherr?”

“No!” Charles pushed Moira away and sat up, drawing one knee to his chest and and hugging it. “I'm so sick of people asking that. Not everything is about him!”

“Sorry,” Moira said after a moment. She sounded genuinely contrite, and Charles felt guilty for his outburst. “But,” she continued, “I really wish you would tell me what it _is_ about.”

Charles turned his face toward Moira's and rested his cheek on his knee. He reached out one hand to her and she took it. “I like you,” he said slowly, as if the slower he spoke the more easily his emotions and sincerity would reach Moira. “And I really want to like you the way you want me to like you. But—”

“You can say you like boys,” she interrupted. Her eyes caught the light from the overhead lamp and seemed especially bright. “I mean, I always knew that you did. I'd just kind of hoped that you would like me too.”

“I _do_ like you,” Charles said, tightening his grip on her hand. “I do, I really do.”

“Yeah,” Moira said, “but not in the same way.” Charles averted his eyes and pressed his forehead against his knee, as if he were trying to hide from giving an answer. “Right?” she prompted.

“Right,” he sighed. 

Moira sighed too, and her sigh sounded relieved, as if she'd been holding her breath. “OK.” She sat up and settled in beside him, pressing her thigh against his. “Charles, it's OK.”

“I just wanted things to be good between us,” Charles said. There was a pleading edge to his voice, a need to be reassured and told that he hadn't spoiled everything by being himself.

Thankfully, Moira obliged. “It was good. It is.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.” Moira scrubbed her eyes with one hand. “Not gonna lie, when I go home I'll probably cry and eat ice cream for a day or two and all that.” She bumped Charles's shoulder with her own. “But I'll get over it.” When Charles didn't say anything, she nudged him again. “Hey,” she said. He turned to look at her and tried to keep his expression from being overly hangdog. “Still BFFs?”

He forced a smile onto his face. “Yeah,” he said. “But it's not the same, is it?” As reassuring as it was not to have pretend for Moira anymore, Charles realized that he was still going to miss their brief relationship, though not for any of the right reasons. He'd already gotten used to being able to exchange kisses in the hallway at school and hold hands without comment, and he didn't look forward to being bereft of those privileges. But what he'd really miss would be his mother's funny little approving looks whenever she saw him with Moira, looks that plainly said, “Oh, thank god you finally decided to try being normal.”

“Well, no,” Moira conceded, looking puzzled. She ruffled Charles's hair. “But that's what you want, right?”

“I guess,” Charles said. He put his arm around her shoulder and squeezed. “I like this,” he said.

“What?” 

“Hanging out. Cuddling, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Moira said. “You would.”

“Are you still coming with me to see Raven's play on Friday?” Charles asked.

“Of course.” Moira smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. “Right now, though, I think I should go home.”

“Want me to give you a ride?” 

Moira shook her head as he slid off the bed. “It's OK. I can walk.” She took her DVD out of the DVD player and put in back into the case, then put the case in her bag. Charles walked her downstairs. They stopped at the door and Moira gave him a hug. “See you tomorrow,” she said.

“See you.” Charles watched her go until she was out of sight, then closed the door and went back up to his room. He flopped down on the bed and pulled his pillow over his face. After five minutes, he got up, took his laptop out of stand-by, and sent Hank a message: “moira and i broke up.”

It took Hank a while to write back, and when he did all he said was, “y?”

“cause i'm apparently too gay to even make out properly with a girl,” Charles replied.

“thatll do it,” Hank wrote.

***

Monday after school there was a cross-country meet, one of the last of the season, and so Charles hurried from his AP Government class to his locker to get his things. He wasn't paying much attention to what was in front of him, thinking instead about the studying for his French quiz that he'd be doing on the bus to the meet, and so he didn't notice the new graffiti on his locker door until he was right on top of it. “Oh no,” he murmured, eyes going wide in horror as he licked his thumb and scrubbed at the last word in the lovingly rendered message: OMEGA CUNT TASTES LIKE ASS. The ink didn't even smear.

Charles let out a whine of frustration, kicked his locker door, and set out downstairs to the main office. At least his connection with Mr. Lensherr ensured that the bus wouldn't leave without him, Charles reflected as he told the secretary that someone had written an obscene message on his locker in permanent ink. She had him write down his locker number on a Post-It note and told him that she would let the janitor know and hopefully it would be gone by the next morning. Charles thanked her and raced back upstairs to his defiled locker.

He was not especially surprised to find Mr. Lensherr waiting there, studying the graffiti, looking severe with his mouth turned down and a crease between his eyebrows. He waited, hands in his pockets, as Charles opened his locker and took out his French notebook and his cross-country bag. Finally, as Charles shut his locker, Mr. Lensherr said, “It doesn't, you know. Not usually. If you do it right, there's not much of a taste at all.”

“Oh god,” Charles said, covering his face with one hand. “I don't even want to think about how you know that!”

“Well, you don't have to think very hard,” Mr. Lensherr said. “Since it's pretty much exactly how you'd expect.”

Charles shook his head. “Inappropriate. That is inappropriate.” And all too easy to think about Mr. Lensherr doing  _that_ to faceless men he found in bars or on websites. It was an image that Charles didn't wish to linger on, for fear that he'd spontaneously combust.

“All right,” Mr. Lensherr said. “I was just trying to make you feel better.”

“Not the way to do it.” Charles hefted his bag over his shoulder and hesitated. “Moira and I broke up,” he said. Mr. Lensherr raised his eyebrows. “I thought that would make you happy.”

“Does it make you happy?” Mr. Lensherr asked. Charles shook his head. “Then it doesn't make me happy.”

Charles leaned against the locker next to his. “I could find out who did that,” he said with a thoughtful nod toward his own locker. He sighed and closed his eyes. “It wouldn't be that hard.” He curled his toes inside his sneakers and let himself feel mean and hateful for a moment. “I could make everyone here love me,” he whispered. “That would be harder, but I bet I could do it.”

“So why don't you?” Mr. Lensherr asked.

“I don't know,” Charles said. He opened his eyes. “I guess because it wouldn't be real.”

“Have you talked with Miss Frost lately?”

“No.”

“I think she would be a better person to talk to about this kind of thing,” Mr. Lensherr said. He shifted his feet and looked around at the nearly empty hallway. “Ready for the meet?”

“What does it matter?” Charles said wearily. “I never win.”

To Charles's surprise, Mr. Lensherr reached out and smoothed down an unruly lock of his hair, then brushed his thumb very lightly over the arch of Charles's cheekbone. “I know. But I like that you keep trying anyway.” It made Charles feel achingly sad, and he was relieved when Mr. Lensherr pulled his hand back and said, “Now come on. The bus is waiting.” He trailed after Mr. Lensherr as he strode toward the stairs and tried not to hate himself quite as much as he wanted to.


	8. Chapter 8

At the end of the Friday before winter break, Charles went to his locker with the intent of clearing out as many of his books and notebooks as he possibly could; after the incident with the raw eggs his sophomore year, he was scrupulous about taking home everything important to keep it safe. When he opened the door, a small white gift bag on the top shelf caught his eye. He dropped his messenger bag and reached for the present with more eagerness than he cared to admit. 

In fact, he had been expecting something like it all day, and had made extra trips to his locker between classes to see if anything had arrived. Since his freshman year, he'd always found a little gift in his locker on the last day before winter break. Usually, the bag contained some chocolate money, a nice scarf or a pair of gloves or a hat, a gift card to the movies or to a restaurant that Charles liked, and a small, intricately shaped metal figurine. The metal sculptures were all of animals: a cat from his freshman year, a rabbit from his sophomore year, and a sloth from his junior year. The sloth had come about because Mr. Lensherr had stopped him after class and asked him what animal he would prefer to receive. Charles had been feeling contrary that day, and so had asked for the hardest animal he could think of. But he had been surprised, when he received it, to find that the sloth was the most carefully and lovingly sculpted of the three figures he had been given.

After getting the hare in his bag sophomore year, Charles had asked Miss Frost why they were included. “I get that he's trying to be nice,” he'd said, “but why the little animals?”

Miss Frost had replied, “Because he's trying to show you that his power isn't just about crushing things or opening locks. It can be constructive as well as destructive.” Charles nodded and did not press the issue. He'd felt stupid for not realizing that Mr. Lensherr had made the little animals for him using his power. 

This year, Charles hoped that inside the bag he would find another set of gloves—he'd lost the ones from the previous Christmas—and maybe a gift card for the Thai place in Sleepy Hollow. Instead, what he saw made him suck in his breath, grab his messenger bag from off the floor, close his locker, and march indignantly into Mr. Lensherr's classroom. Mr. Lensherr didn't look up from his paperwork until Charles set the gift bag in front of him on the desk and said, “I can't accept this.”

“Is it not what you wanted?” Mr. Lensherr asked.

“It's exactly what I wanted, but that's not the point.” Charles paused and licked his lips. “How did you even know that I wanted a new iPhone?” He opened the bag and glanced inside again. “A _black_ iPhone, even?”

“You and Armando had a very involved chat about it during a lab,” Mr. Lensherr said. “I couldn't help overhearing.”

Charles flushed as he remembered the conversation Mr. Lensherr was referring to. It had taken place at the end of November, right before Thanksgiving break, and he had spent a fair amount of time whining about his old phone and his parents' reluctance to let him get a new one. “It's too expensive,” he said weakly.

“I can afford it.”

“But it's a lot of money,” Charles said. _And you're not rich_ , he thought, then felt ashamed of himself.

“Charles,” Mr. Lensherr said, leaning his chin on his hand, “I live alone. No one depends on me. I make a decent salary. I can afford to buy you an expensive phone if I want to.” He tapped his pen on the blotter. “Also, I figured you could switch over your number and then I'd go ahead and pay the bills.”

Charles shook his head. “No way. That is too much.” Mr. Lensherr just stared up at him, and so he felt pressured to continue. “I don't want you to feel like I have to, you know, give you anything. Like I owed you,” he murmured, fiddling with the zipper on his sweater. “I don't even have a present for you.” He felt enormously selfish as he reflected on his own eagerness at getting the expected bag of treats, while never having felt driven to go out and find a gift for Mr. Lensherr. He peeked inside the gift bag again and noticed, nestled beside the iPhone in its plastic case, a little bundle wrapped in tissue paper. He pulled it out and unfurled it.

Mr. Lensherr watched as Charles revealed two metal animal figurines: the first, a hen sitting on her nest, and the second, a hawk about to take flight. “My gifts have always been meant as gifts,” Mr. Lensherr said. “I don't attach any obligation to them. I give them to you because I want you to have them.”

The little hen and hawk felt heavy in Charles's palm. He wasn't sure whether he liked them or whether he felt hemmed in by the roles they represented. He also wasn't entirely sure that Mr. Lensherr was being honest about his intentions. But Mr. Lensherr's words sounded good, and the lure of the iPhone meant that he was more than willing to be convinced. “Maybe,” he said. “I just don't know.”

“Do you think your parents will be upset?”

“Huh?” Charles hadn't even considered it. “Oh, um, I doubt it.”

Mr. Lensherr raised his eyebrows. “They must be very understanding.”

“Not really,” Charles admitted. “They just don't pay attention to me much.” Mr. Lensherr frowned at this, so Charles added, “It's also not hard to make sure they don't pay attention. You know.”

“I see.”

Charles looked from the hen and the hawk in his hand to the bag that still held the iPhone. “Here,” he said, picking up the hen and setting it down on the papers Mr. Lensherr had been going over. “If you keep this, then I'll keep the phone.”

“That is acceptable,” Mr. Lensherr said. He picked up the hen and rubbed his thumb fondly down its back.

“I liked the sloth you made me last year,” Charles said.

“I'm glad,” Mr. Lensherr said. “It was a challenge. I watched a lot of videos on Youtube to get it right.”

“It's good,” Charles said. “You did a good job.” He re-wrapped the hawk figure in the tissue paper and placed the little bundle inside the bag alongside his new phone. “I guess I'll see you after the break,” he said after a moment of awkward silence. Mr. Lensherr nodded. “Have a good one,” he ventured, but then cringed at the way that sounded. Hadn't Mr. Lensherr just told him how alone he was, how he lived alone and no one depended on him? What did it say about Mr. Lensherr's life that he was willing to spend so much time studying an animal online just so he could sculpt a perfect metal miniature that would sit on Charles's bookshelf?

“You as well,” Mr. Lensherr said, poising his pen to begin writing again. Charles took that as his cue to hurry from the room, before anything else could be said between them.

***

Charles never much enjoyed winter break, and this year was no exception. He found Christmas to be a trying holiday, one that forced his family into the uncomfortable position of having to interact for extended periods of time and, moreover, having to pretend to enjoy it. His mother always drank too much on Christmas Eve, and then chased away her hangover by drinking more on Christmas Day, which left Kurt in a perpetually sour mood. Presents didn't make things much better, since Charles had never been able to understand the appeal, not of giving or receiving. The last time Charles had been swayed by an expensive gift, he had been twelve and the gift in question had been a microscope. The other things he'd been given over the years—the flat-screen TV, the DVD player, the laptop, the Playstation—were all very nice, but nothing that had overly excited him upon opening the box. As for giving, while he enjoyed making Raven and his friends happy, some of the essential anticipation of gift-giving was removed for him. After all, he already knew the other person would like whatever it was he got for them. He only got them what he knew they already wanted.

But the worst part of winter break—of any extended school holiday—was, for Charles, having to share the house with his stepbrother, Cain. Cain was four years older than Charles and in his final year of college. He was a large, bulky young man and had played on his university's football team for two years before being kicked off due to his poor conduct on and off the field. 

Charles couldn't say definitively that he hated Cain, but he'd certainly never forgiven him for something that had taken place when Cain had been sixteen and Charles twelve. The summer after Kurt had married Charles's mother, they had all gone up to Martha's Vineyard for a vacation. Cain had been put in charge of Charles and Raven when the three of them went swimming on the beach every day. Cain's attitude toward Charles had changed drastically; over the course of their time on The Vineyard, he began to pay extra attention to Charles, acting big brotherly when he'd never done anything of the sort back in Westchester. Charles had been wary, at first, but by the end of the trip he warmed up considerably to Cain and his rough affection.

On the last afternoon before going home, after spending their day in the ocean, they had stopped to change in the little wooden showering hut outside their summer home. Cain and Charles had been on one side of the divide, and Raven on the other, as they washed away the salt and the sand. Charles had been toweling himself off when Cain asked him to take off his swim trunks. “I want to see how you're different,” he'd said. “Down there.” When Charles refused, Cain grabbed him and tried to force him to obey. Charles kicked at his shins, beat Cain's chest, and hissed, “I'll tell your father on you.” As soon as Cain let him go, Charles bolted from their side of the shower and ran straight into the house without bothering to change or wipe his feet. 

Neither he nor Cain ever brought up what had happened, and more than five years later Charles still went out of his way to avoid being alone with his stepbrother. Charles even found himself naturally choosing to wear more layers when he knew Cain would be in the house. This year, he had reverted to the big, baggy sweaters and worn khakis that had been his staple wardrobe just a few months earlier. They were familiar, unappealing clothes that made him feel reassuringly frumpy, and he was glad that he still had some use for them. 

On Christmas Day, in the afternoon, a clump of extra Markos had arrived at the house for dinner. Charles and Raven sat through the meal obediently, but by six in the evening they were holed up in their respective rooms, pointedly ignoring the party going on downstairs. Charles passed a few hours setting up his new Blu-Ray player, channel-surfing through holiday specials and grating commercials for post-Christmas sales, and commiserating with the atheists on Reddit. At about nine o'clock, he picked up his new phone, made moves in the  _Words With Friends_ games he had going with Hank and Moira, then went to his contacts list and found Mr. Lensherr's name. He had been both pleased and slightly annoyed when he had first turned on the phone and discovered that Mr. Lensherr had been there before him, and had left his cell phone number behind.

Charles laid back on his bed and shifted his phone from one hand to the other as he wiped his sweaty palms on his shirtfront. As much as he was enjoying his new toy, the issue of reciprocity still bothered him. He could think of only one thing to give Mr. Lensherr, and that was the free use of his body. But Charles wasn't sure if that quite counted as a gift, or even whether it  _should_ count. 

He huffed out an irritated breath through his nose. The phone was a great gift, but he wished that Mr. Lensherr had not given it to him. He disliked feeling indebted to Mr. Lensherr. Even if Mr. Lensherr said it was a gift, Charles knew what that really meant. His seventeen year old cynic's view of Christmas meant that he was not at all pleased with the relatives that took over his home, the holiday that kept him apart from his friends, and most of all with the motions of generosity that everyone went through even as they privately added up the value of their own loot. Mr. Lensherr, despite his reassurances, was surely no different from everyone else. So Charles longed for it to be the twenty-seventh, when Hank would be back from visiting his own relatives and available to eat pizza and play videogames and just be normal again.

But Charles still couldn't resist trying to settle things with Mr. Lensherr. Thumbs flying over the touchscreen, he composed the following message: “Hi, if you aren't busy tonight I thought maybe you could come pick me up and we could drive around and look at the lights or something?” The unspoken offer—that Charles would be willing to do other, more personal, somethings if Mr. Lensherr wanted—seemed painfully transparent to Charles, and so he had to send the text right away before his bravado left him.

Two agonizing minutes later, his phone buzzed with a reply from Mr. Lensherr. “Thank you for the invitation,” he wrote, “but I think it's best if you and I don't see each other outside of school.” Charles was about to reply when his phone buzzed a second time with an afterthought. “Perhaps next year.”

“OK,” Charles texted back, feeling both relieved and a little saddened. He looked over at the four metal animals that were lined up on his bookshelf. “Merry Christmas.”

“Have a good night,” Mr. Lensherr replied.

Charles set his phone on the nightstand and drew his comforter around him like a coccoon. He tried to imagine life in a year, a life where he and Mr. Lensherr might drive around and look at Christmas lights before retiring to Mr. Lensherr's apartment, scavenging through the leftovers or maybe having a slice of pie each before settling down together in the bed they shared. It seemed like a very remote future, one that could not possibly belong to him. 

When Raven knocked on his door, it was nearly ten o'clock and Charles was half-asleep. “ _It's a Wonderful Life_ is replaying on TCM,” Raven said. “Do you want to watch that or  _A Christmas Story_ ?”

“ _Wonderful Life_ , please,” Charles yawned. Raven turned on his TV and set it to the appropriate channel, then climbed into bed beside Charles to watch George Bailey's life unfold. He put one arm around her shoulders and allowed himself to be distracted from his own future for the rest of the night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas in June! This was originally going to be part of a longer chapter, but it's gotten long enough that I'm splitting it.


	9. Chapter 9

On Friday of their first week back from break, all the seniors who were mutants were scheduled to attend an assembly eighth period. The topic was mutant-specific sex-ed; boys were to report to the gym annex while girls went to the auditorium. Charles did not find out, however, that Mr. Lensherr would be leading the boys’ assembly until seventh period, and so he spent all of calculus in a haze of fretfulness, doodling spirals and worried-looking eyeballs in the margins of his notebook, and barely even remembered to write down the weekend’s homework.

As soon as seventh period was over, Charles raced downstairs to the gym annex, where he loitered in front of the doors until Hank showed up. Charles pounced on Hank as soon as he saw him, dragged him across the hall to hide in a cloister between two glass cases showing off student artwork, and said, “We have to pull the fire alarm.”

“What?” Hank said, still shaken by Charles’s assault.

“I can’t sit through a whole period of Mr. Lensherr talking about sex,” Charles explained. “I _can’t_ , Hank. I just can’t. What if he tries to use me as an example?”

“An example of what?”

“Anything!” Charles clung to Hank’s arm. “Everyone will look at me. I can’t do this.”

Hank gently loosened Charles’s grip on him, then patted Charles on the head. “There, there,” he said ineffectually. After a moment’s thought, he added, “I’m sure it won’t be so bad. Also, I think pulling the fire alarm is a felony.”

Charles groaned and hid his face in his hands. Hank went to put a comforting hand on Charles’s back, but before he could Mr. Lensherr rounded the corner carrying a stack of Xeroxed papers in one hand and his briefcase in the other. Hank quickly withdrew his hand from Charles’s vicinity and instead shoved it deep into his pocket where it would be safe.

“Mr. McCoy,” Mr. Lensherr nodded as he approached them. “Charles.” He stopped at the door to the gym and turned back. “Is something wrong?” His hand tightened on the door handle when Charles responded to his question with a death glare. “I won’t call on you,” Mr. Lensherr said. His tone was soft and placating and made Hank raise his eyebrows. “I won’t even acknowledge you, if that will make you feel better.”

“You think?” Charles snapped. He caught Hank’s eye, jerked his chin toward the door Mr. Lensherr held open, and said, “Come on.” With Hank meekly in tow, he stalked past Mr. Lensherr, muttering, “Let’s get this over with.”

Once they were inside the gym, Hank whispered to Charles, “How can you talk to him like that and not get in trouble?”

“Call it a perk,” Charles said darkly.

They found seats toward the middle of the bleachers, beside Armando and Alex. Charles sat between Alex and Hank, and felt pleasantly protected being flanked by two tall people. He propped his feet up on his full messenger bag and hugged his knees. The bleachers were metal and cold even through his blue jeans. Charles pulled his the collar of his cardigan up around his ears and leaned against Hank.

“I’m cold,” he whined.

“They gave us the bad room,” Hank said. “I bet the auditorium is warm.”

“This is stupid,” Alex grumbled. “He’s not going to say anything we don’t know.”

“Or can’t Google ourselves,” Armando added with a smirk. Hank snorted, and Charles sighed.

Just before the bell rang, Sean clambered breathlessly up the bleachers to collapse on the bench beside Hank. Mr. Lensherr shut the doors as soon as the bell went quiet, then picked up his stack of photocopies from the bench where he’d left them. He handed half to the student sitting closest to where he stood, then walked the length of the bleachers to the far side, where he handed the remainder of the pile to the student sitting there. “Take one, pass them on,” he said. Then he walked to stand at the middle of the bleachers, toeing the basketball court’s sideline and watching as the handouts made their way up and down the rows. “I’m going to make this as painless as I possibly can,” he said, projecting his voice so that everyone could hear, “for my sake and yours.” He took the extra copies as they got passed back to the front, then waited until the rustling of paper and the shuffling of feet died down before he continued. “You’ve already had regular sex-ed—human sex-ed—so now they give you one class period for the rest of it,” he said, his lip curling into a dismissive sneer at the thought of this administrative outrage. “Although, to be honest, things aren’t _that_ different for mutants. Tab A gets inserted into Slot B, always wear a condom unless you’re anxious for a baby or a disease, and so on.” He paused to look out of the group of thirty-five teenaged boys, and Charles noticed that his eyes did not linger anywhere close to where Charles’s group sat. “What's different for us is, as I’m sure you know, the alpha and omega phenomenon.”

Hank nudged his elbow into Charles’s side. When Charles turned to look at him, Hank held out Mr. Lensherr’s handout. It was two pages stapled together and covered in a dense, single-spaced list of defined terms, cautionary information, and sources. “Oh my god,” Hank mouthed to Charles.

 _yes_ , Charles thought back dryly. _he is thorough, isn’t he?_

“Alpha and omega,” Mr. Lensherr continued, “are terms that were coined in the late 1950s to describe what had previously been known as ‘mutant hermaphrodite syndrome.’ Basically, doctors had begun to noticed that individuals born with mutant abilities or mutant bodies also showed a far, far higher incidence of hermaphroditism than the general population. But these mutants were much different from any human hermaphrodite that scientists had ever encountered before.” Mr. Lensherr smiled fleetingly. “Human hermaphrodites were sterile. But mutants? Mutants stayed fertile.

“Let’s break down these words, these ideas, of alpha and omega.” Mr. Lensherr began to pace slowly in front of them, walking with careful steps along the sideline, heel-to-toe as if he were taking a sobriety test. “Pursuer and pursued. Penetrator and penetrated. But consider this: we don’t use the words ‘alpha’ and ‘omega’ to describe heterosexual mutant relationships, do we?” He put one hand in his front pocket and jiggled his keys. “No. We say ‘man’ and ‘woman.’” He paused and frowned. “Except for in the very rare instances of relationships between female alphas and male omegas.” Mr. Lensherr shrugged. “Even then, the terms are sexist, assigning physical weakness and reproduction to the omega and pursuit and aggression to the alpha. Even more telling? A male mutant in a relationship with a male omega is an alpha. But take that relationship away, and he’s just a man again. The inverse is true for women, of course. Being an ‘alpha’ is considered a man’s default state, while being an ‘omega’ is a woman’s default.

“These terms were assigned in the ‘50s and describe that era’s idealized one man, one woman model of relationships. In our mental pictures of relationships, using words like ‘alpha’ and ‘omega’ just continues to give the basic sexist model of heterosexual relationships social currency.” He looked up at his audience and plainly realized that he had lost them. With a glance up at the ceiling and a roll of his shoulders, he went on. “Fine, so it’s sexist. But there’s also an unfortunate grain of truth to the whole thing: omegas really do tend to be smaller than other males. Alpha females tend to be taller, with greater muscle mass. Male omegas produce fewer androgens, while female alphas produce more. This is all, obviously, in addition to the major anatomical differences.” He stopped, picked up one of the extra handouts, and held it up so that the last page faced out. “There are diagrams on the back page of these, if you’re interested.

“Anyway,” Mr. Lensherr said, “not only are there differences in the physical appearances of alphas and omega, but some studies actually link specific mutant abilities to sex characteristics.” He paused to clear his throat and take a single step back. “Telepathy, for instance, along with extra-empathic abilities, are both more common in women. These abilities are also over-represented among male omegas, as compared to the entire male mutant population.” Charles blushed, hunched his shoulders, and tried to think invisible thoughts. “If you’re interested,” Mr. Lensherr said, “I included a link to the study on page two.

“So what does all this mean?” Mr. Lensherr asked. He stared down at the handout he held, rolling it between his palms until it formed a very even paper tube. It seemed to Charles as if he were asking himself the question for the first time. “There’s so much we don’t know about ourselves. Why talk about it at all?” He beat the tube inside one cupped palm and it made a weak, hollow thudding sound. “Because all of this alpha and omega stuff is less rare than you think. Because, in a survey of male mutants done two years ago, just under 50% admitted to having sex with another man at some point in their lives, whether mutant, human, or omega. 30% of conventionally sexed male mutants said they had had sex with an omega male at least once. For female mutants, those numbers are even higher. Rates of mutant homosexuality are high enough to cause significant alarm in this country’s social conservatives.

“You think being gay makes you weak? Well, guess what? Half this room will have sex with another man at some point. Some of you will actually become pregnant and push out a kid—” Charles noticed several people sitting in the rows in front of him glance back in his direction, and felt a blush start creeping up his neck, “—so you’d better get used to it. Like it or not, these issues are going to be a part of your lives no matter who you choose to have sex with.

“Why do you think mutants have such high rates of homosexuality?” Mr. Lensherr asked.

After a long, uncertain silence, a boy in the front row raised his hand. Mr. Lensherr pointed to him, and the boy said, “Because alphas and omegas can reproduce?”

Mr. Lensherr nodded. “Right. We are a new species. We are an endangered species. Mutations can give us mind-boggling gifts, but they also destroy embryos. Mutants are at an incredibly high risk for miscarriages due to birth defects. That’s why it’s so important for mutant couples looking to have kids to get genetic testing done. Some parents are going to be at much higher risk than others, so committed couples need to be aware of that before they start trying to have children.”

Hank raised his hand and ignored Charles’s gasp and frantic tugs on his sleeve to try to pull his arm back down. When Mr. Lensherr called on him, he asked, “Isn’t that what the bonding is supposed to take care of? Genetic compatibility?”

Mr. Lensherr hesitated. “Bonding—or imprinting—is very controversial.”

“How so?” Hank said. “I thought its existence was more or less accepted.”

“Yes,” Mr. Lensherr said, drawing out the end of the word so that it hissed past his lips. “Well, it’s one of the more sensationalized aspects of mutant life.”

“But it does exist,” Hank pressed, even as Charles thought _shut up shut up_ at him. “Right?”

“Right,” Mr. Lensherr said, though he looked uncomfortable admitting it. “The controversial part is that it’s almost exclusively been observed in alpha and omega couples, and even then, not all alphas and omegas will experience it.”

“What does it feel like?” A boy in the row in front of Charles called out without raising his hand.

“It’s, ah, pretty distinctive,” Mr. Lensherr said. “Everyone has a different experience, but you’ll definitely know it if you feel it.” Thirty-five pairs of eyes stared back at him dubiously. Someone coughed. “It feels nice,” Mr. Lensherr finally offered.

“Is it, like, true love?” asked a rather flamboyant boy, whom Charles had always suspected of being a fellow omega.

“No,” Mr. Lensherr said. “Because you can’t love someone you’ve only just met.” The room went thick with adolescent skepticism. Mr. Lensherr sighed. "It's like lust, but a thousand times more. All you want is this person, but not just... sexually. And your sense of smell changes, becomes incredibly important where before you barely noticed it." He didn’t look up at Charles, but his voice lost its pedantic edge and his expression softened. The difference was very noticeable, and it made Charles fidget in his seat and wish he could get out his phone to check the time. "This only applies to those acting as alphas, though," he added. "For omegas, any bonding takes much longer. Months. Sometimes years. But omegas have more to worry about, you might say." Mr. Lensherr checked his own watch as he added, "They seem to want to make absolutely sure they aren't being led astray."

The bell rang. Mr. Lensherr looked relieved and said, “Go on, get out of here.” The room echoed with the sound of everyone shoving their handouts into their backpacks, shuffling down the bleachers, and discussing their after school plans.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Hank said to Charles.

“For you, maybe,” Charles said as he put on his messenger bag. “I could have done without it.”

“You want to come over tonight?” Hank said.

“Can’t,” Charles said as they made their way back down to the gym floor, past Mr. Lensherr, who seemed to be deliberately fiddling with his briefcase in order to avoid them. “I’d like to, but Raven made me promise ages ago that I’d take her and her friends to play laser tag.”

“Cool,” Hank said. “Tomorrow? Come over in the afternoon?”

“Sure,” Charles said, and they parted ways to go to their lockers.

***

Charles went over to Hank's house at two pm on Saturday and they muddled around for a half-hour talking about college applications and their upcoming human genetics class, which would start when Mercy College's spring semester did. Then they settled down to play _Super Smash Bros._ They had been playing for more than an hour, and Charles was winning until Hank began to cheat, as he often did, by pulling his bare feet up onto the couch and sticking his toes into Charles's ribs and armpits to tickle him. To retaliate, Charles climbed on top of Hank, pinning Hank's legs down with his knees as he lifted his controller high, intending to use the side of it to give Hank's chest a solid thrashing. He was taken extremely off-guard when Hank preempted his assault by yanking Charles's face down close to his and kissing him.

But it didn't take long for him to adapt, even as their noses mashed together, Charles's elbow was crushed against Hank, and his knee was wedged between Hank's thigh and the couch. His controller fell between them and the back of the couch, becoming stuck in the cushions. Still, Charles didn't pull away, not even to try to make himself more comfortable. Instead, he opened his mouth to flick his tongue over Hank's lips, inviting deeper kisses. Game entirely forgotten, Hank let his own controller fall to the floor and moved one hand to Charles's waist, drawing him close as he shoved his tongue into Charles's mouth. Charles slid up Hank's chest so that they were lying belly to belly, with Hank's legs spread open and Charles between them.

Carefully, lest he scare Hank off, Charles rolled his hips against Hank's as their tongues circled one another. He smiled when Hank broke their kiss briefly to let out a breathy moan, then grabbed Charles's ass and pulled him closer. Charles felt very powerful, in a way he'd never felt with Moira. When Hank moved his mouth to Charles's neck and began to suck, marking him with a stinging hickey just above his collarbone, Charles whimpered a bit theatrically.

Hank raised his head when he was satisfied with the mark he'd left on Charles. His glasses were askew and his lips were very red. “I've never—” His voice broke, and he tried again. “I mean, this is the first time—”

“First kiss?” Charles said, pecking Hank on the lips and smiling.

“Yeah.” Hank moved his hand off of Charles's ass to smooth down his hair and straighten his glasses. 

“It's OK,” Charles said. “Moira was mine.” It wasn't the truth, but Charles didn't think the truth would go over very well. He raised a mock-critical eyebrow at Hank. “Not bad for first try.”

“You don't think this is weird?” Hank asked, sounding rather uncertain himself. 

Charles did, actually, think it was a bit odd to be making out with his best friend. It was very hard not to remember the time in the eighth grade when Hank had a stomach bug and threw up in a trash can in the cafeteria, or the time when he'd accidentally tripped over his own feet and knocked into Charles, who had then fallen and sprained his wrist. But still, Charles was enjoying the way it felt to be sprawled on top of someone who was very obviously male—and getting even more obvious, as Charles ground his hips down in a lazy figure-eight pattern and felt Hank's response against his hip. “I like it,” he said.

“Me too.” Hank stretched his neck up and caught Charles's mouth in a kiss that wound up lasting several sloppy minutes. When they parted, Hank's eyes darted over Charles's face, as if he couldn't decide whether to focus on his eyes or his lips. “Can I ask you something?”

“I don't know,” Charles said. “Can you?”

Hank chuckled, then let out a long, whistling breath. “Only if you won't be mad.”

“Well,” Charles said, plucking at the first button on Hank's shirt with his fingernail, “don't say anything to make me mad.”

“It's just, do you think we could—I mean, would it be possible to see you, uh, without clothes?” Hank's face was bright red as he squirmed beneath Charles and let out another wheezy laugh. “Just to see, you know, how we're different?” Charles went still and did not respond right away. “Charles?” Hank said and squeezed his hip.

“Sure,” Charles said, but his voice had lost its confidence. He slid off of Hank to kneel at the other end of the couch. His hands automatically grasped the hem of his sweater to pull it over his head, but Hank stopped him. 

“Wait.” He sat up and swung his feet down onto the floor. “My mom is home.”

“Oh.”

“Maybe you could spend the night?” Hank took off his glasses and started to clean the lenses using his shirttail. “I mean, if you want?”

“Sure,” Charles said. He sounded very far away, even to his own ears.

“I thought we could—”

“Whatever,” Charles said. “Whatever you want.” He stood up, feeling very light-headed. At the moment, he wanted to be at home, by himself, where he could think clearly about what it was he was doing. “Why don't I go and get my stuff?” Charles said, then drifted up the stairs from the basement to the front foyer.

Hank followed and hovered over Charles as he put on his boots. “Do you want me to give you a ride?” he asked.

“No,” Charles said as he got his peacoat out of the closet. “Just come pick me up at, like, six, six-thirty.”

“More like six if you want dinner,” Hank said. Charles nodded. “I'll be there at six, then.” Hank watched as Charles buttoned up his coat and put on his scarf and gloves. “Is everything OK?” Charles nodded again, and Hank huffed. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Charles said, pulling his hat down over his ears.

Hank bent down and kissed Charles's forehead. Charles put one arm around Hank's waist and hugged him. “See you at six?” Hank asked.

“Uh-huh,” Charles said, moving away from Hank to open the front door. Hank waved to him, and Charles waved back as he took careful steps down the McCoys' unshoveled front steps. 

It was too cold to think as he walked, and Charles considered that a blessing. He concentrated on moving forward through the tamped down snow on the sidewalk and avoiding the thick patches of ice that didn't crunch beneath the rubber soles of his boots. By the time Charles got home, the sun had set completely.

Once inside, he stripped off his coat, boots, gloves, hat, and scarf, then immediately went upstairs and got into a hot shower. He stayed under the water until his skin became wrinkled and waterlogged. When he got out, he toweled off and avoided looking at himself in the mirror. He wrapped the towel around his waist and went to his room. After a moment of contemplation, he put on a pair of new-looking blue briefs, which were still new-looking because they were slightly too small; the elastic cut into the backs of his thighs, and so he almost never wore them. Then he chose his favorite pair of skinny jeans, a Henley with all four buttons undone, and a zip-up cardigan to go overtop. He combed back his hair with his fingers and sat down on the foot of his bed. The clock by the television said it was just after five-thirty. Charles picked his damp towel off the floor and returned it to the bathroom. Then he gathered together a shirt, a sweater, underwear, socks, his toothbrush, and his deodorant, and shoved them all into his overnight bag.

As Charles zipped up his bag, he realized that he had no idea what Hank wanted from him. He'd imagined that Hank would want to fool around a little more, which was fine with him, but as he thought about it, he started to fear that Hank might just want to look at him, like a scientist examining a specimen. He saw himself standing naked in front of Hank, exposed, so Hank could look him over, shake his head, and say, “No thanks. I thought it'd be different.” After all, Hank liked girls, and while Charles wasn't a normal boy, he certainly wasn't a girl. 

Then again, Hank had kissed him, and kissed him a lot. That, Charles thought, indicated that Hank didn't just want to look at him. If he only wanted to look at a naked omega, why would he bother asking Charles, when there were so many pictures and videos to be found online? But Charles didn't know whether Hank wanted to experiment with him, go out with him, or just look at him. His confusion was overwhelming and unpleasant, and he kicked himself for not having tried to read Hank's mind to figure out his intentions. He imagined Miss Frost shaking her head at him.  _You can't have this power and be so moral all the time_ , she would say.

His phone buzzed with a message from Hank: “im outsde n its to cold. Com dwn plz.” Charles picked up his bag and went downstairs. He found his mother reading in the den. “I'm going to stay at Hank's tonight,” he told her.

She nodded. “Have fun, darling.”

He let her kiss him on the cheek, then went to the kitchen door where he'd left his coat and boots. Charles put them on, grabbed his keys off the hook, then went out and down the drive. He pulled on his gloves as he approached Hank's Volvo. A sparse snow was falling, and Charles could feel snowflakes alighting in his hair. One flake got caught in the eyelashes of his right eye, and he rubbed it away with the back of his hand. He climbed into the passenger side of Hank's car, dropped his bag onto the floor, and shivered.

“We have to go pick up the pizza for dinner,” Hanks said as he pulled out of Charles's driveway. Charles nodded and leaned in to turn up the radio, but Hank turned it right back down again. “Are you mad at me?” he asked.

“No.”

“So what's the problem?”

Charles shrugged. “I guess I don't really know what you want.”

Hank sucked on his bottom lip. “I don't know either.” They stopped at a red light, and he glanced over at Charles. “I want to kiss you again,” he said.

“OK,” Charles said. He spent the rest of the drive to the pizza place looking out the window. While Hank got the pizzas, Charles waited in the car, fiddling with the strap on his bag. On the drive back to Hank's, Charles held the pizzas on his lap and was pleasantly warm the whole way. 

They ate at the dining room table with Hank's parents, which was something of a relief for Charles because it delayed the moment when they would have to work out what, if anything, was happening between them. Hank's mother fussed over Charles, asking him about the schools he was applying to and what his plans were for the summer. Her attention thawed some of Charles's uncertainties, and he even let his knee brush Hank's under the table, which made Hank smile at him and then look back down at his plate. 

Once they finished eating, Hank's parents excused them to go upstairs. Hank closed the door to his room behind them as Charles set his bag down by Hank's bookcase. “So,” Hank said. “You want to watch a movie?”

Charles crossed his arms. “I thought you wanted to do other stuff?”

“I do,” Hank said. “But I thought maybe you'd be more comfortable if we sort of—” he held his hand out, palm down, and made a sliding motion, “—eased into it.” Charles looked dubious, and Hank threw up his hands. “I don't know. Whatever you want.”

“Why now?” Charles asked. 

“Huh?”

“Are you just interested because I'm different?”

Hank lay his index finger on his lips. “Shh.” Charles hadn't even realized that he'd raised his voice. “OK, first question? It's because of Mr. Lensherr's—”

“I don't want to hear anything about Mr. Lensherr!”

“No, I mean, because of the assembly on Friday. The studies he talked about? You know, how a lot of men have slept with omegas once or twice?” Hank went to his desk and retrieved a printout from on top of one of the stacks. “I looked that study up and it's legit. And I guess it made me feel less weird for wanting to try it.” He held the sheaf of papers out to Charles in case he wanted to read them, but Charles pushed them back. “So, as to your second question... yes?” Charles's face made it clear that this was the wrong answer. “I mean, I'm interested because you're an omega. Is that bad? It's not the only thing I like about you.”

Charles looked down at his feet. He sat down on Hank's bed and pulled off his socks. “I don't want to be different,” he said.

“Well, you are.”

“But I don't _want_ to be!” 

Hank sat beside him on the bed. “You're acting like it's a bad thing.”

“Have you heard the names people call me?”

“Yeah,” Hank said, “and they suck.”

Charles leaned his shoulder against Hank's. “I'll take being a mutant,” he said. “I'd just prefer to be a normal mutant.”

“No such thing,” Hank said. “You want my feet?” He held one up for Charles's inspection. 

“It's a good foot,” Charles said. 

“Take it. It's yours. You can be called Bigfoot.” Hank put his arm around Charles's shoulders. “I don't know. Can't we just kiss?” 

Charles tilted his head back invitingly, and Hank kissed him. Soon, he moved his mouth to Charles's jaw, then to his neck, as his hand skimmed over Charles's thigh. Charles closed his eyes and let Hank do what he liked until he began to get irritated with the way Hank's hands kept shying away from from touching him anywhere that would have felt really good. “Do you want me to take my clothes off?” Charles asked mildly.

“Yes,” Hank whispered in his ear.

Feeling more confident than he had earlier, Charles stood, unzipped his cardigan, and let it fall to the floor. Hank kicked at it, catching the fabric in his toes, and said, “Wait, did you change? Were you wearing this earlier?”

“I took a shower when I went home,” Charles said, undoing his belt. 

“Oh.”

Charles shimmied out of his tight jeans, then hesitated. Someone who was secure in himself would do a little striptease, he reasoned, but he was not that person. Also, it was  _Hank_ . Charles figured that if he tried to be sexy for Hank, he would burst out laughing after five seconds. “You want me to take off the rest?” he asked. Hank nodded. “Unbutton your shirt,” he commanded. Hank obeyed while Charles watched. He was surprised to see a decent-sized patch of dark hair on Hank's chest. “Pretty good,” Charles said, reaching out to feel the hair, and Hank's warm skin beneath it.

Hank flushed and mumbled, “It's gotten kind of out of control in the last year.”

“I like it,” Charles said. Then, after taking a moment to collect himself, he stepped back, pulled the Henley off, and stood in front of Hank in just his underwear. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband and asked “More?” When Hank nodded, he took a deep breath, pushed his briefs down to his knees, and then stepped out of them. He had to resist the urge to cover himself. “Is this OK?”

“Yeah.” Hank licked his lips. “Um, do you want to come sit?” Charles nodded, but when he came forward, Hank reached out and put his hand on his hip. Charles started to get hard, and he blushed when Hank grinned up at him. “You're bigger than I expected,” Hank said.

Charles pummeled his shoulder. “You're an ass,” he cried as Hank laughed and grabbed him around the waist. He squawked indignantly when Hank grabbed him around the waist and yanked him down onto the bed. “Big, dumb, hairy beast!” Charles snorted out as Hank tickled him and pushed him onto his back. “Mean!”

“Nah,” Hank said. He laid beside Charles. “Can I touch you?” he asked. 

“You are touching me.”

Hank blew a raspberry. “You know what I mean.”

“Mm.” Charles stretched lazily and opened his legs. “If that's what you want, I guess.”

Before he sat up, Hank pressed a kiss just beneath Charles's ear and Charles sighed. He turned his head away and tried not to tense up when he felt Hank's hand between his thighs. “You really don't have, uh—”

“Yeah, yeah, it's true,” Charles spat out. “'Charles doesn't have any balls.' So funny.” Hank's fingers pressed gently on his lubrication glands, and Charles's bitterness faded. “That's nice,” he said, lifting his hips a little. Hank rubbed a little harder, and Charles sighed.

“You're getting wet,” Hank observed. Charles spread his legs wider. “Is this how you masturbate?” 

“Sometimes,” Charles said. “When I feel like it.” Hank's fingers slowed, and Charles keened in protest. “No, go harder.” Instead, Hank pushed his middle finger inside Charles and crooked it just a little. Charles began to breathe faster, and he moved one hand down to touch his cock. “That's good,” he purred and nuzzled his cheek against the blanket. When he lifted his head, he saw that Hank was rubbing himself through the front of his khakis. “Wait,” Charles said, twisting around so that his head was next to Hank's lap. Obligingly, Hank laid on his side, so he could keep fingering Charles while Charles undid his belt and his zipper, pulled out his cock, and sucked it until it was big and stiff in his mouth. Soon, Hank was following Charles's lead, and licking Charles's erection as he slowly drew his finger in and out of Charles's ass. 

But it wasn't long before Hank lifted his mouth off of Charles to say, “Oh god, stop, I'm really close.” Charles gave Hank's cock a final slurp, then lifted his head. Hank withdrew his finger from Charles and sat up, his long legs stretched out and slightly bent at the knees. “Come here,” he said, and patted his thigh. Charles looked doubtful, but still, at Hank's urging, he straddled his hips. Hank ran his hands down Charles's bare chest. “No fur on you,” he said.

Charles lifted one arm over his head. “Just under here,” he said. Hank trickled his fingers over Charles's ribs, but instead of making him laugh, it gave him a pleasant shiver that went right to his cock. He gulped in a breath as Hank lowered his mouth to one of Charles's nipples and began to suck. He snorted back a surprised laugh as he found that it actually felt pretty good, especially when Hank nibbled very gently. 

One of Hank's hands supported Charles's lower back, while the other moved over his cock, tugging a little harder than before. “Please,” Charles whimpered, and moaned out loud when Hank scraped his teeth over his nipple. “Keep going,” he said. He could feel Hank's cock rubbing against his inner thigh. “I'm going to come.” Charles licked his fingertip and rubbed it over his other nipple, still startled by how good it felt and how sensitive it was. “You're going to make me come,” he breathed, and Hank hummed against his flesh in response. The vibrations sent Charles over the edge, and he moaned as his thighs shook with his orgasm. A small amount of fluid shot from the tip of his cock over Hank's fingers. Dazed, Charles watched as Hank used his come to jerk himself off, ejaculating over Charles's hip with a low, throaty groan.

The sight of Hank's orgasm inspired Charles to dip his finger into the come spatted across his hip and taste it. Hank watched him, his eyes blissfully glazed, and said, “Wow.”

Charles made a face after he sucked his fingers clean. “It's not  _that_ good.”

“No,” Hank sputtered, “not that. I mean, this was—”

“I know,” Charles said and yawned. He slid off of Hank, grabbed a tissue from the box on the table beside the bed, and cleaned himself up as best he could. Then he settled down on his stomach and waited while Hank went down the hall to the bathroom, returned, shucked off his clothes, and settled into bed beside him. They laid side-by-side for a very long moment before Hank ventured to put his arm around Charles's waist. Charles sighed and tilted his hips in. One of his legs squirmed between Hank's, and he rested his head on Hank's chest. “Not a bad first time at all,” he mumbled.

“I watch a lot of porn,” Hank said, sounding distracted. “Like, seriously, a lot.”

“Ever think it'd pay off?”

“Not like this.” Hank squinted down at Charles. “Are we going out now?” Charles looked up muzzily, and Hank hastened to take back what he'd said. “I mean, we don't have to. We'll stay friends, no problem.”

With one hand, Charles scrubbed at his eyes, then gave Hank's chin a gentle rap with his knuckles. “You want to go out with me?”

“I guess. Yeah.”

“Then let's go out.” Charles grinned and said in an annoying sing-song, “Be my boyfriend, please?”

“Sure,” Hank said. “But I totally understand that it's just temporary.”

Charles frowned. “No, Hank. I don't want you to understand that.” He pinched the little bit of soft fat on Hank's stomach. “Don't you dare. I want you to out with me like you want to marry me, or don't do it at all.”

“OK, OK,” Hank yelped, trying to twist away from Charles's sharp pincers. When Charles stopped trying to hurt him, Hank said, “We're not really getting married, though. Right?”

“Right,” Charles said, feeling a little sad despite himself. “I wouldn't be able to deal with your porn addiction.”

“That's cool,” Hank said, “because I'd have a definite problem with your lack of boobs.” He put both his hands on Charles's chest and squeezed, then exhaled a mournful sigh. “You've just got nothing up here for me to work with.”

Charles laughed far harder than he expected to and put his arms around Hank's neck.  _you weird mutant_ , he thought.

“Yeah, well, that goes double for you,” Hank said. Then, with an exaggerated, throaty growl, Hank attacked Charles's neck, kissing and sucking, making new hickeys beside the old. Charles laughed and laughed and didn't try to push him off.


	10. Chapter 10

It snowed all through Sunday, but the snow was light, airy, and not thick enough to pack into decent snowballs, let alone close school. On Monday Charles and Raven got a ride in the morning from Kurt, who was on his way to work and so dropped them off a half-hour before the first bell. As they approached the main doors, Charles saw Moira step out of her mother's car, so he hung back and waited for her while Raven went inside. “Hey,” Charles said with a wave.

She waved back. “Hi!” she called as she waddled up to him in her boots and parka. Once she reached Charles, she gave him an awkward hug. “Congratulations!” she said, her breath puffing in the air in small white clouds that hung between them for a moment before disappearing. Charles tilted his head, puzzled, as she took his arm and dragged him inside. “About you and Hank,” she explained.

They paused together in the atrium to stomp their feet and take off their hats and gloves. Charles brushed off the snowflakes that had gathered on the arms of his coat and said, “How do you, uh—”

“Hank told me,” Moira said. She shook out her hair. “What?” she asked when she saw Charles's expression. “You think we don't talk?”

“I don't know,” Charles said, following her down the hall to her locker. “I guess I hadn't thought about it.”

“Yeah,” Moira said as she spun the lock and jerked the handle up. “Well, after you and I broke up, we started talking a lot more.” She paused in unloading her messenger bag to grin at Charles. “He had such a funny little crush on you for the longest time.”

This came as a surprise to Charles. “Wait, what? Seriously?” Moira nodded as she wriggled out of her parka and stuffed it into her locker, where it just barely fit. “I had no idea,” Charles said.

“Probably since, like, the beginning of the year.” Moira checked her face in the mirror affixed to the inside of her locker door. She took a tube of shimmery dark pink lip gloss out of her purse and applied a coat. “He really liked your makeover, I guess.” She pressed her lips together to even out the color, then made an exaggerated fish-face at herself in the mirror.

“He made fun of me for that,” Charles said, so annoyed that he didn't even crack a smile at Moira's mugging.

Moira shrugged. “Well, that's Hank for you,” she said. “But he agonized about it forever. All, 'Am I gay? What if I tell him and then we aren't friends anymore?'” She smoothed down her hair, then took out her headband and repositioned it. With her hair and make-up fixed to her satisfaction, Moira went about finding her books for the morning amid the mass of old test papers and candy bar wrappers on the shelf in her locker. “I'm glad he finally manned up and told you.”

Charles sighed. “Yeah, I guess.” He took off his scarf and folded it around his hands like a muff worn by a Victorian lady out for a walk in the winter. “But now I have to tell Mr. Lensherr.”

“He didn't really care that you went out with me,” Moira said. “Right?”

Charles shrugged. “I just don't want him to feel threatened.”

“Huh,” Moira said, fixing Charles with a speculative look.

“What?”

“That's new.”

“What is?”

“You caring about Mr. Lensherr's feelings.”

“Hey.” Charles felt a surge of defensiveness. “That's not fair.”

She closed her locker, rolling her eyes. “I don't really care,” she said. “I'm just saying. You definitely didn't talk like that when we were going out.”

“I guess I just feel bad for him,” Charles said as they walked together to the cafeteria. “I don't think he has any family, you know?”

Moira chose a table by the window and spread out her English notes. “That sucks,” she said, not sounding terribly sincere. “Listen, I have to get a draft of this essay done before class, so...”

Charles got the hint. “Cool. I'm going upstairs.”

“See you at lunch,” she said as he walked away.

When Charles reached Mr. Lensherr's room, he found the door closed and the lights off, so he went to his locker, took off his coat, and got his books for English and French. Then, after dithering for a minute, he went to Miss Frost's room. Her door was open, and she was sitting at her desk, working on her laptop.  _hi_ , he thought to her.

 _Hello, Charles_ , she thought back, but finished typing the sentence she was working on before she turned to face him.  _What can I do for you?_

He stepped up to her desk. _i kind of have an issue_. She cocked her head to the side and mentally nudged him to continue. _it's about mr. lensherr_.

_Yes?_

Charles scuffed his shoe on the linoleum and then took off his bag so he could sit at a desk in the first row. _actually, it's about hank mccoy. well, both of them, i guess_. A crude, smudged piece of pencil graffiti on the desktop depicting a young woman with massive breasts caught his eye, and he licked his thumb to clean it off as he thought, _hank and i are going out_.

 _All right_.

 _and_ , Charles went on, _it's not that i'm scared to tell mr. lensherr, exactly. he said i could date_. He ducked his head as he recalled the circumstances under which Mr. Lensherr had told him this and, as a distraction, rubbed his thumb over the graffiti until the drawing was a whorl of gray. _but i don't want him to feel bad_.

 _Mr. Lensherr has proved to be very resilient_ , Miss Frost thought with a touch of amusement. _I'm sure he will be fine_.

 _well, but i don't want him to get on hank's case either_ , Charles insisted. _so i just wanted to tell him to maybe not be so... intense_.

 _You could write him a note_ , Miss Frost suggested. _It might be easier than trying to tell him face-to-face_.

This seemed like a decent idea to Charles, so he took out a page of notebook paper and, after some consideration, wrote:

> Mr. Lensherr,
> 
> Hank McCoy and I are going out now. Please, please, please be nice to him and don't make him too nervous. He's my friend, and right now he's my boyfriend, so I'd really like for everything to be OK with us.
> 
> Thank you,
> 
> Charles Xavier
> 
> P.S. I still like you and if you ever get lonely you can text me.

Charles spent a minute going over the postscript, attempting to judge whether it sounded too forward or just friendly enough. At three minutes to the first bell, Charles decided that it would have to do. He folded the sheet of paper in half, then got up from the desk and handed the note to Miss Frost. “Don't read it,” he said. Miss Frost opened the right-hand bottom drawer of her desk, took out an envelope, placed Charles's note inside, and sealed it. She wrote “For Mr. Lensherr” across the back, and Charles nodded his approval.

“You should try reading his mind some time,” Miss Frost said as Charles picked his bag up off the floor. “I think you would find it very educational.”

Charles could not help but recall the last time he'd been inside Mr. Lensherr's mind, and even though he knew he was turning beet red, he was unable to stop the memory. Miss Frost raised her eyebrows when she saw his expression. He felt her try to read his mind, but Charles pushed back and succeeded in keeping her out.

She smiled. “You've gotten better at that.”

“It's easier than it used to be,” he confessed, happy to be talking about something other than Mr. Lensherr. “Even thought I don't practice it much.”

“You're very powerful,” she said. “You should use it more often.” She sent him an image of Mr. Lensherr working at his desk, which flashed in Charles's mind and then was gone, like a light switched rapidly on and then off by a bored child in a darkened room.

Charles scratched the back of his neck. “I don't think Mr. Lensherr would like it if I read his mind.”

“He doesn't need to know.” When Charles stayed silent, she thought, _He can be rather... complex. I don't think you'll ever understand him without having a look in his head_.

“Maybe,” Charles said. The bell rang. He hefted the strap of his bag over his shoulder and waved to Miss Frost. _see you_.

_Have a good day._

***

Mr. Lensherr acted the way he always did during Charles's physics class, but at the end of the period, just before the bell rang, he stopped by Charles's desk and said, “Could you stay after class a moment, please?”

Charles nodded. The bell rang. He packed up very slowly while everyone else rushed off to fifth period. Armando shot him a sympathetic look on his way out, and Charles lifted his shoulders, subtly shrugging in response. Once the room had emptied, Mr. Lensherr shut the door and returned to sit at his desk. He stared at Charles, who hadn't moved from his seat. “You can come closer,” Mr. Lensherr said.

His voice sounded calm enough that Charles didn't feel too apprehensive about moving to stand in front of Mr. Lensherr's desk. He saw, opened and smoothed out flat on top of the blotter, the note he had written that morning. “So,” Mr. Lensherr said. He put his hands on the desktop, palms down and fingers splayed. “You and Mr. McCoy?” Charles nodded. “Mm,” Mr. Lensherr said. He closed his eyes briefly, and the lump of iron ore he kept on his desk as a paperweight rose into the air between them and began to shift and undulate, taking on new shapes that immediately dissolved into liquid curves. Charles's eyes were drawn to it, much like when he spent hours sitting and watching the fireplace in the winter.

“You're upset,” Charles whispered. He certainly didn't need to read Mr. Lensherr's mind to figure that out.

“It's difficult,” Mr. Lensherr admitted.

Charles twisted both his hands around the canvas strap of his bag. “I'll break up with him,” he said, even though the thought of doing so made something in his chest lurch with loss and regret. “Would that make you feel better?”

“No.” Mr. Lensherr shook his head and curled his hands into fists. “I can't—no. It will be good for you.” He smiled, but it was a very strained smile and didn't reassure Charles. Mr. Lensherr took a deep breath and the swirls of the iron hitched, becoming angular for a moment. “There's a saying: if you love someone, let them go—”

“And if they love you, they'll come back,” Charles finished for him. For an instant, he thought he saw the metal coalesce into the shape of a heart, but it was gone before he could be absolutely sure.

“Yes,” Mr. Lensherr said. “I used to think it was trite, but... well, here we are.” He cleared his throat. “I'm trying to let you go, Charles.”

“OK,” Charles said. He decided to ignore the underlying message of what Mr. Lensherr had said, and instead address his own primary concern: “You're not going to, like, kill Hank. Right?”

This time Mr. Lensherr's small smile was genuine. “No, Charles,” he said, but there was a sadness in his face that made Charles desperate to be inside his mind, to understand why he wasn't trying to keep Charles for himself, and to lessen all of Mr. Lensherr's bad feelings that he could.

Instead, he resigned himself to watching the small muscles at the corners of Mr. Lensherr's eyes twitch and his jaw clench and unclench. “I have to go to lunch,” Charles said, when it became apparent that Mr. Lensherr was waiting for Charles to speak.

“Of course,” Mr. Lensherr said. The lump of metal went from liquid to solid again and lowered itself back to its place atop a sheaf of papers. “Have a good rest of the day.”

“You too,” Charles said. He had to struggle not to glance back as he left.

Out in the hall, Hank was waiting by Charles's locker. He looked relieved when he saw Charles come out of Mr. Lensherr's room intact. “There you are,” he said and moved out of the way so Charles could get into his locker. “I thought something had happened, maybe.”

“Nothing major,” Charles said, taking out his coat and changing his books.

“Because I saw Armando and he said—”

“It's fine.” Charles tried to sound soothing. “Where's Moira?”

“She went down to buy her lunch. She got sick of waiting for you.”

“So,” Charles said as he closed his locker, “this morning she told me that you actually had a crush on me for a while.”

Hank looked down at the front of his coat and picked away a few tufts of lint. “I might have, yeah,” he said.

“Well, why didn't you tell me sooner?” Charles asked, exasperated.

“I asked you to see a movie!” Hank looked up, and Charles saw that he was blinking rapidly behind his glasses.

“What?” Charles spread out his arms, bewildered. “But we go to the movies all the time!”

“I know. But that time, remember, when we went and saw _Real Steel_? I was trying to ask you out.” Hank leaned his shoulder against a locker and ran one hand through his hair, smoothing it down on the side but mussing up the cowlick in back. “You thought it was a joke, so I figured I was just being stupid as usual.”

“I'm sorry,” Charles said. He put his arms around Hank's waist and hugged him. “I really had no idea. I'm the stupid one.”

“You're supposed to be able to read minds,” Hank grumbled as he hugged Charles back. “Shouldn't you be amazing at relationships?”

Charles leaned back and moved his hand between them to give Hank's scarf a tug. “You want me to listen in on all your thoughts? Is that what I'm hearing?”

Hank shook his head. “Maybe I didn't think that all the way through.”

“Nope,” Charles said. He raised himself on tiptoe and kissed Hank just long enough to make it meaningful, but not long enough that someone watching might feel the urge to complain. “Are we good?”

“Yeah.”

“Shall we go down and fetch Moira?” Charles disentangled himself from Hank's embrace, took his hand, and started to pull him toward the stairs.

Hank rolled his eyes, but his smile had gone wide and goofy. “Yeah, yeah. Moira. Food. Genetics class.” He blew out a gusty sigh.

“Poor baby,” Charles teased, squeezing Hank's hand. “Your life, so hard.”

“It is!” Hank protested as they went down the stairs side-by-side. “I mean, on a day like today? I'd much rather be at home, in bed, and watching _30 Rock_ —you'd be there too, of course.”

“Of course,” Charles said. “Well, if you can be patient until school lets out, I might be able to help you with that for a bit.” He grinned up at Hank. “I know it's just _so_ hard watching TV by yourself.”

“Something gets hard,” Hank deadpanned, and Charles snorted back a giggle. “Sorry, but I've got a crush on Tina Fey.”

“Just don't let her distract you from me,” Charles said, pitching his voice up higher than usual and doing his best to sound flirtatious and sexy.

“Nah,” Hank said. “We'll steal Moira's fake glasses and put them on you. I'll never be able to tell the difference.”

Charles pouted and tried to punch Hank in the gut, but Hank was too well-protected by the bulk of his winter clothes for Charles's fist to make much of an impact. “Fine. If you're going to imagine me as Tina Fey, then I'm imagining you as Joel McHale, you big, dumb beanpole.”

“I choose to take that as a compliment,” Hank said.

Moira left the lunch line after paying and approached them, tucking her turkey sandwich into her bag as she walked. “Aren't you two adorable?” she drawled. “Now hurry up, or we won't have time to eat.”

“Yes ma'am,” Hank said, and they left together to go out to Hank's car and go to class.

***

Charles's curiosity held out until early February, when he finally took a peek inside Mr. Lensherr's mind during a review lecture on relativity. He was bored and didn't see how much harm he could possibly do by dipping in very shallowly and testing the waters. What he saw was so mundane that it was actually a disappointment: Mr. Lensherr's various thoughts about the lecture were intercut with the worry that he wouldn't cover all the material before the bell rang, along with questions about what to have for dinner that evening and whether or not he would have time to work out after getting the tests from second and sixth period graded. Everything was so normal that Charles tuned back out after a very dull minute of eavesdropping, then forgot about trying to read Mr. Lensherr's mind for the next few weeks.

Valentine's Day arrived, and Charles and Hank spent most of their time together at school cooing over one another and giving each other small presents that they each claimed to have chosen for their ironic value. Hank brought Charles a stuffed lion holding a heart between its paws and a bag of Hershey's kisses, and Charles gave Hank a heart-shaped box of chocolates and an over-sized card decked out with Victorian lace and frills. Since they had both spent every other Valentine's Day of their teenage years scoffing at couples and pretending they were perfectly happy by themselves, thanks so much, they were extraordinarily pleased to have have the chance to be obnoxious as a couple. “You're so cute that it makes me puke,” Moira said with a scowl as Charles fed Hank some of his grapes during lunch. But Charles knew that she had gotten a lollipop and a card from Sean Cassidy delivered to her during second period through the Key Club's Valentine's Day fundraiser, and so she wasn't nearly as grumpy as she pretended to be.

After school, Charles and Hank went to Charles's house and up to his room. “I have one more present,” Hank said, blushing so furiously that even his scalp turned pink. He dug a small, rectangular package out of his backpack and handed it to Charles, who took it eagerly.

“A book?” Charles said, as he tore it out of the plain brown bag Hank had wrapped it in. When he saw the cover, he frowned, then laughed. “What in the world—?” The book was a cheap paperback, and looked to be at least twenty or thirty years old, though it was in good condition. The cover was blue, and the title was set in blocky orange typeset: _Kitty Malone on the Prowl!_ Beneath the title was an illustration of a lithe, dark-haired young man wearing nothing but cat ears and a white Oxford button-down that was much too big for him; a fluffy brown tail peeked out from beneath the shirttails. Charles turned the book over and read the blurb on the back aloud. “'Christopher “Kitty” Malone has superfast reflexes, is superflexible, and can see in the dark. He's also twenty-two, newly out of school, and an adorable little omega who is sick of the dating scene. What's a boy to do? Transform himself into a supersexy stripper and callboy in order to better find his mate, of course!'—Oh my god, you got me a dirty book!” Charles chortled gleefully and flipped through the pages until a passage caught his eye: “'”Are you ready for this?” Kitty teased as he lowered himself onto Jake's fat cock, his ass spreading wide to accommodate the older man's huge girth—'”

“OK, OK,” Hank said. “Save it for late at night when you're jerking off.”

“Where did you even get it?” Charles asked as he sat down on the edge of his bed, still thumbing through the pages and giggling at the chapter titles.

Hank sat down beside him and put one arm around his waist. “Off of Amazon. It's supposed to be a classic.”

Charles snorted. “Right. It's like _Hamlet_. But porn.”

“Sure. It's the _Hamlet_ of omega porn.” Hank shrugged. “It's a very specific classic.”

Once he'd flipped through to the back cover and smirked at the list of other titles offered by the publisher, Charles turned a suspicious look toward Hank. “You read it, didn't you?”

Hank adjusted his glasses. “Well, I mean, I had to test it out. To make sure you would like it.”

“I see,” Charles said. He got up and put the book on his nightstand for easy access. “And am I going to like it?” He asked, standing in front of Hank with his hip thrust out to the side.

“Yup.” Hank opened his knees and pulled Charles closer, so he was standing between them.

“There are some other things I'd like too,” Charles prompted after a moment of having his thighs hugged while Hank rested his cheek against Charles's stomach.

Hank's hands moved up to squeeze Charles's ass. “I think I can guess what those are.”

“Oh, don't worry,” Charles said with an exaggerated wink that made Hank smile. “If you get stuck, I'll help you out.”

***

In physics the next day, Mr. Lensherr finished his lesson fifteen minutes before the end of the period and then gave the class the remaining time to begin their homework. Charles was still feeling flirty after his first satisfactory Valentine's Day, and so, after finishing the first problem, he decided to try looking in Mr. Lensherr's mind again. He was curious about how Mr. Lensherr had spent his own Valentine's Day: had he made plans with someone—and if so, whom?—or had he spent the day sulking the way Charles had in previous years?

When Charles tiptoed across the surface of Mr. Lensherr's mind, he expected to come up against more or less the same boring, ordinary concerns that he had seen the last time he had been there. Instead, he was plunged directly into a fantasy, sharper and more perfect than any memory, one that depicted the very classroom he was sitting in as empty except for Mr. Lensherr and himself. Disoriented, Charles blinked and raised his head, looking around the room to reassure himself that everyone else hadn't left for lunch. Once he was satisfied that there had been no sudden change in the status quo, he turned his attention back to what Mr. Lensherr was thinking about:

_Charles stands at the front of the room, turning in his homework. Mr. Lensherr checks it quickly. Perfect, he says. I think that deserves a reward, don't you? Charles bends over the desk, pushing his ass out. Yes, please, he says, his voice low and sultry._

The real Mr. Lensherr made notes on the administrative memo he was looking over and checked his daily planner while Charles stared at him, mouth agape. Mr. Lensherr looked so utterly normal even as, in his fantasy, he stood up and walked around the side of his desk to inspect Charles's ass with a smile. _Take these off, he says and hooks two fingers in one of Charles's belt loops, tugging it for emphasis. Charles complies, unzipping his jeans and shoving them down. He's not wearing underwear—_

 _Not true!_ Charles thought frantically, clamping his knees together in defense, and Mr. Lensherr's fantasy changed to show Charles wiggling out of his underwear as well. Mr. Lensherr imagined him with a very nice body, the sort of smooth, well-rounded curves and flat planes that could be seen in magazine ads and porn. Charles wasn't sure how to feel about that. He covered his mouth as Mr. Lensherr's version of Charles allowed his bare ass to be spread wide, then cooed and squirmed as Mr. Lensherr crouched down and licked from the swelled glands to the small, tight opening.

Outwardly calm, Charles stood, went and took the bathroom pass from the hook by the door, and left the classroom. He walked down the hall to the boys' room in a daze. Once inside the restroom, and certain he was by himself, Charles stood with his back to the mirror and looked over his shoulder at his bottom. It was a good one, and had served him well so far, but it definitely wasn't as pert as what Mr. Lensherr had been daydreaming about. He sighed and shook his head, wondering if that was what Miss Frost had meant for him to see when she told him to read Mr. Lensherr's mind. He thought it probably wasn't, but then again it was sometimes hard to tell with her.

Intent on idling away as much of the time left in the period as he could, Charles leaned his hands on either side of the sink and stared down at the dripping faucet. He reminded himself that it wasn't a big deal if Mr. Lensherr thought about sex, or even about having sex with Charles. After all, he was almost eighteen. Of course Mr. Lensherr would start to think about that more, especially knowing that Charles had gone into heat. Probably, Charles reasoned, he'd been imagining things like this for months, and Charles just hadn't known about it until now. The thought didn't make him feel much better. Maybe it would have been different if he were anything like Kitty Malone, who was sexy and slept with lots of men and loved it. Instead he was Charles Xavier, science nerd, who had run cross-country for four years and only ever placed once. Charles Xavier, who didn't go on a date until he was seventeen and whose sexual experience was limited to trading blowjobs with his first boyfriend, who was also his best friend. Charles, who knew full well that he wasn't the least bit sexy. The problem was, Mr. Lensherr didn't seem to agree, despite having known Charles for his entire high school career. Charles wasn't sure how to go about breaking the news to him that, even once he graduated, he would never be the kind of sexy omega that Mr. Lensherr wanted him to be.

Charles took a deep breath, and moved away from the sink. He used the urinal, flushed, then washed his hands without soap because the dispenser was out. He picked up the bathroom pass from where he'd left it on the side of the sink, and walked slowly back to class. As he was replacing the bathroom pass, the bell rang, and Charles stood aside to let everyone else file out. Then he went to his desk and began to pack away his notebook and calculator.

He glanced up as he closed his messenger bag and saw Mr. Lensherr giving him a concerned look. “All right?” Mr. Lensherr asked when he saw that he had Charles's attention.

Charles nodded and then, feeling brazen, said, “You might not want to fantasize during class, though.” Mr. Lensherr's eyes widened and his expression went blank. “I mean,” Charles hastened to add, “it's OK if you want to think about me. I guess. Just, not during class?” Charles shrugged and hung his bag over one shoulder. “It's a distraction,” he said, then turned and walked out before Mr. Lensherr could respond.

***

That evening, after Charles had finished all his homework, ended his chat with Hank, and put on his pajamas, he took _Kitty Malone on the Prowl!_ off the nightstand and began to read. Within an hour, he was three-quarters of the way through the slim paperback and more than a little frustrated. Not that he expected the writing to be literary quality, but what little plot there was served mostly to allow Kitty to have lots of thinly described sex with random men. Charles was disappointed by how easily such a promising scenario could transform into something so dull and repetitive that he could skip over large chunks without missing much. Anyway, it was plainly obvious that Kitty was going to end up with Jake, the handsome bartender who had made fun of Kitty on his first day stripping and thus earned Kitty's unwavering enmity—unwavering, at least, until chapter eight. Kitty's opinion was quickly swayed when Jake revealed that he was also a mutant, and not human as Kitty had assumed, by using his ability to control electricity to save Kitty from an aggressive patron at the nightclub where they worked.

Charles rolled his eyes at Kitty's simpering and sudden helplessness, not to mention his sudden change of heart about Jake, whom he'd been whining about for nearly a hundred pages. But Charles couldn't help feeling a little turned on by the description of Jake breathlessly, decisively using his powers and rescuing Kitty. He wondered whether Mr. Lensherr ever did anything so big and extravagant and, well, _manly_. He paused to imagine Mr. Lensherr doing something ridiculously difficult, like disassembling a car engine with his mind, then perhaps clenching his fists and crumpling the empty husk he had left behind. The image made Charles press his thighs together in a mix of arousal and unease. He went back to reading.

> Jake scooped Kitty up and carried him to the back room without any difficulty at all. He set him down on one of the couches, mindful not to catch his tail in an uncomfortable position, then went and found Kitty something to put on. He returned with a gray sweatshirt of his own. It was too big, but Kitty put it on gratefully. Then Jake went into the freezer and got ice for Kitty's ankle. Finally, he stopped at the first aid kit and took out a wide bandage. He dragged a folding chair over and set it down across from Kitty, then took a seat. Kitty put his sprained ankle in Jake's lap and winced as Jake wrapped the bandage around it, then held the bag full of ice on top of his ankle. The tip of Kitty's tail twitched, thudding rhythmically against the couch cushion.
> 
> “Does it hurt?” Jake asked.
> 
> “Not too much,” Kitty said.
> 
> Jake didn't let go of Kitty's foot. Instead, he massaged it by pressing his thumbs firmly into the arch, then moving them up toward the ball of the foot. “How's that?”
> 
> “Very nice,” Kitty purred. “Thank you.”
> 
> To Kitty's surprise, Jake blushed and averted his eyes. “Listen, I—I know this is probably a really personal question, but, well—” Kitty cocked his head and smiled, confused but receptive. “You must have, ah, gone into heat before. Right?”
> 
> Kitty giggled into his hand and shook his head. “No, not yet.”
> 
> “Never?”
> 
> “Nope.” Kitty's ears twitched as he propped his elbow on the arm of the couch and rested his chin in his hand. “I'm kind of late, huh?”
> 
> “I'm just wondering if maybe you aren't going into heat right now,” Jake mused. “Maybe that's why the guy went nuts on you?” He continued to rub the sole of Kitty's foot and said, “You smell so good today, I can see why he couldn't help himself.” Kitty's mouth went dry as Jake added, “Of course, you always smell good.”
> 
> Jake moved from the chair to sit beside Kitty on the couch. He leaned in close enough that Kitty could feel the heat of his body and smell the alcohol on his hands from spills at the bar, as well as the cigarette smoke that his clothes had absorbed from the patrons' chain-smoking. The look in his eyes was so intense, so suddenly hungry and full of longing, that for an instant Kitty thought that Jake would certainly make love to him right there on the couch in the back room of the club. But Jake seemed to sense Kitty's surprise and leaned back, just a little. “How do you feel?” he asked.
> 
> “I don't know,” Kitty said, bewildered.
> 
> Jake pressed the back of his hand to Kitty's forehead. “You're warm.”
> 
> “I guess I should go home. I don't think I would be getting much done tonight anyway, with my ankle the way it is,” Kitty said.
> 
> “I'll take you.”

Eager to get to the good part, Charles skipped over the opening paragraphs of chapter nine until he got to the point where he figured their falling into bed together was imminent.

> Jake watched as Kitty stepped out of his blue jeans and stripped off Jake's baggy sweatshirt. He moved to kiss Kitty, but hesitated. Kitty's tail swished back and forth. He held the sweatshirt up in front of his bare chest, suddenly bashful. “What's wrong?” he asked Jake.
> 
> “I guess you've slept with a lot of those guys,” Jake said, sounding more sad than angry.
> 
> “What guys?”
> 
> “The ones you dance for at the club.”
> 
> “Oh.” Kitty toed the carpet and bit his lower lip. “Well, yeah, a few of them.” When Jake's face fell further, Kitty threw down the sweatshirt and put his hands on his hips. “Oh, stop! It wasn't _that_ many!”

By Charles's count, it was actually a fairly sizable number, but this didn't stop him from reading on.

> “I just wish I could have been the first,” Jake said with a hangdog expression.
> 
> Kitty pressed himself up against Jake's chest, hot and needy. “All those other guys made me better at what I do,” he said, nuzzling up Jake's neck to give his earlobe a gentle nibble. “They made me good enough to give you everything you want.” He felt Jake's hands tremble as they slid over his hips to cup his ass. After a moment, Jake's fingers slipped under the silky material of Kitty's small, black briefs. Jake pushed the briefs down to Kitty's thighs, and Kitty stepped out of them with a wiggle of his ass and a flick of his tail. Jake kissed Kitty, softly at first, then rougher, pressing his tongue into Kitty's mouth and fluttering it over his front teeth. His big hands squeezed Kitty's ass, kneading the firm flesh. Kitty moaned into Jake's mouth as his cock stiffened against Jake's thigh.
> 
> “You need it so bad,” Jake murmured, as one of his hands made its way to Kitty's front to tease his hardness. Kitty nodded and moaned as the fingers of Jake's other hand ventured between his thighs to press his swollen love button. “How's that?” he asked. “Feels good?”
> 
> “Oh, yes,” Kitty sighed. “You're getting me nice and ready for you.” His hands sought out the bulge at Jake's crotch, and he whimpered when he found that the size of it was very much to his liking. “You'll have to make me very wet,” Kitty breathed, “so I can take all of your big, hard cock.”
> 
> “Don't worry,” Jake said. “I will.”

To Charles, all their talking came off as very silly and embarrassing, and yet his own cock had no problem whatsoever with the writing. Defeated by his libido, he reached inside his flannel pants and adjusted the waistband so that the tip of his erection was free for easy access. He licked the tip of his index finger and rubbed it over the head of his cock, paying extra attention to the sensitive slit. As he touched himself, he turned the page and skimmed ahead to find the part where Kitty actually got fucked.

> Kitty sucked Jake as deeply as he could, but was only able to fit about half of his manhood down his throat before he began to choke. Still, he licked and slurped with wild, happy abandon, crouching over Jake's long legs and lifting his ass so that his tail curved in a long, graceful arc over his back. Jake placed his hand on Kitty's head, not forcing him to go faster or deeper, but instead playing with his hair and stroking the soft fur on his ears. His stiff pole leaked several drops of clear, tangy fluid, and Kitty lapped them up. When more came out, he smeared it over his lips, then licked them clean before returning the the task at hand. Jake groaned and tightened his fingers in Kitty's hair. “Oh, pretty Kitty,” he sighed. “You're too good.”
> 
> Kitty lifted his mouth off of Jake's cock and sat back on his heels. “I need you in me,” he mewled as he straddled Jake's hips. “Are you ready for this?” Kitty teased as he lowered himself onto Jake's fat cock, his ass spreading wide to accommodate the older man's huge girth.
> 
> “Let's find out,” Jake said breathlessly, putting his hands on Kitty's hips to steady him. He clutched the meat of Kitty's ass and held him wide open.

Charles stopped reading to picture this and to imagine how it would feel to be the one on top. He rocked his hips in imitation of fucking and circled his fingers over the flared edge of the head of his cock, drawing out the little shivers of pleasure that his own touch produced. He set the book aside, devoting himself wholly to his masturbation. At first, he pictured himself atop Hank, bracing his hands on Hank's chest and petting his fingers over his chest hair. He thought about how he would move up and down, up and down, and the way Hank's hands would pull at his hips, holding their bodies tightly together as he thrust into him, making circles with his own pelvis, filling Charles all the way.

Wriggling and moaning beneath the bedsheets, Charles touched his cock harder and faster. Soon, he pushed his pants down far enough that he could take himself in hand and jerk off. As he did so, his mind drifted away from the fantasy of being with Hank to thoughts of other, older men, broad-shouldered and rougher than his boyfriend. He thought about how Mr. Lensherr looked in his fitted shirts, the way his torso narrowed at the waist, the way his ass shifted as he walked.

Treacherously, Charles's mind retrieved the image from Mr. Lensherr's fantasy of himself bent over the desk, while Mr. Lensherr held his ass open to kiss and lick him. Charles still didn't quite know whether he found the act to be strangely sexy or just dirty. In the spirit of experimentation, he tried flipping things around, imagining instead that Mr. Lensherr laid on his back in bed and urged Charles to hold onto the headboard and straddle his face. At first, this scenario made Charles want to laugh, but the more he thought about how it would feel to have warm, wet pressure working over the underside of his cock to his glands, then all the way back to his ass, the less silly the idea began to seem. To facilitate his imagination, Charles kicked his pants all the way off and spread his legs open. He pressed the middle finger of his left hand against the opening of his ass and rubbed. His finger came away slick, and he used his own wetness to massage his sensitive glands—his “love button,” he recalled, and turned his head to stifle his snickers in the pillow.

He stroked his cock as he fingered himself and turned his mind to, not just receiving Mr. Lensherr's touch, but giving back to him. Charles imagined himself bending over Mr. Lensherr, sucking his cock while Mr. Lensherr licked him. That image took him right up to the edge, and to push himself over he thought about how Hank looked when he was coming. He pictured Hank going rigid, his toes curling as come shot from the head of his cock onto Charles's hands and lips, and couldn't help wondering if Mr. Lensherr would look the same. When Charles came, he clamped his lips together and whined through them as he pumped his finger shallowly in and out of his ass. “Oh god, oh god,” he whispered as he overstimulated himself, drawing his orgasm out for as long as he possibly could. Only when the lightest touch began to hurt him rather than make him feel good did he withdraw his hands with a long, hissing sigh.

Once he had caught his breath, Charles reached out and got a tissue from the box on his nightstand. He carefully wiped down his fingers and swiped up the little bit of come from where it had landed on his stomach. He tossed that tissue away and got a second to clean away the worst of the fluid between his legs. When he was finished, he wadded it up and threw it into the trashcan as well. He retrieved his pajama pants and struggled back into them. Then he took the abandoned book from where he'd left it on the pillow beside his head, closed it, and set it on the nightstand. With a yawn, he turned off the bedside lamp and lay back, pulling his sheets and comforter up and tucking himself into a cozy cocoon. He shut out all thoughts of Mr. Lensherr and his inadvertently shared fantasy. Instead, he began to count down from a hundred in French, which was his usual method of meditation when his mind was going in too many directions at once. Within minutes, he was asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

Mr. Lensherr did not speak to Charles until early Friday morning, nearly fifteen minutes before the first bell. Charles was at his locker when Mr. Lensherr came out of the stairwell at the end of the hall. He wore a very cool and sophisticated leather jacket and carried his briefcase in one hand as he twirled his keys in the other. He looked out of place to Charles, even in a wealthy suburban high school; Mr. Lensherr, he thought, would definitely have been more at home on the subway in the city, heading to a fashionable, high-paying job rather than yet another day of worksheets and test reviews.

When Mr. Lensherr saw Charles, he bypassed the door to his classroom and instead headed directly toward him. Charles ducked his head inside his locker, as if he were searching for a book that had slipped down into an inconvenient spot, and pretended not to notice Mr. Lensherr even when he came and stood right beside him.

“Charles,” Mr. Lensherr prompted after a very long moment of being ignored.

“Mmm?”

“Please look at me when I'm talking to you, Charles.” Mr. Lensherr spoke in the too-calm voice which usually preceded the handing out of detention slips. Charles raised his head and peered around the edge of his locker door. “I want to address what happened during class on Wednesday,” Mr. Lensherr said.

Charles shrugged one shoulder, as if he had forgotten the incident until Mr. Lensherr brought it up. “Yeah?”

“It was an invasion of privacy.”.

“Whose?” Charles countered. “Yours or mine?” The acidity of his tone surprised him as much as it did Mr. Lensherr.

“Mine,” Mr. Lensherr said. But he avoided looking directly into Charles's eyes as he continued. “I didn't give you permission to read my mind.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “Hypocrite,” he muttered.

“I'm sorry?”

“You're usually all, 'rah-rah, mutant pride, your abilities are awesome!' But you only really think that so long as my power doesn't make you look bad.” Charles slammed his locker door shut. The bang that it made in the empty hallway was satisfying, but even better was the rush of anger he felt. He was mad at the world and it felt wonderful. “You're just as bad as the stupid chess club. They kicked me out after two meetings because they thought I was cheating. Or the track team.” Charles's resentments escaped in a rush that he was unable to dam up behind his usual smile and desire to please. “Hank ran track for a season, but they handicapped him so much that there was no point in him doing it anymore. They wouldn't ever let him come close to winning.” Charles flailed his arms in a wide arc. “So sure! 'Be proud of what you can do!' What a load of—”

“Just because I think you should be proud of yourself doesn't mean that I don't think you should learn boundaries.” Mr. Lensherr's expression was stern and carefully controlled, which only made Charles more frustrated. “Refusing to maintain reasonable limits is disrespectful.”

“How am I supposed to respect you when you're a complete pervert?”

As soon as the words were out of Charles's mouth, he knew they were a mistake. Mr. Lensherr's entire face changed as the corners of his mouth turned down and twisted the rest of his features into a snarl. He straightened his shoulders and appeared to Charles several inches taller than he had been only moments before. “I am still your teacher,” he said, the volume of his voice rising with every word, “and you will either respect me, or I'll have you removed from my class!”

Charles dropped his chin and stared down at his shoes. “Sorry,” he whispered, all surliness gone from his voice. He had never before been in real trouble with a teacher, and the threat of being taken out of Mr. Lensherr's class permanently made his stomach tighten, his fingers clench, and his face tingle with shame.

“I'm not telling you not to use your gift,” Mr. Lensherr said. “But right now I'd prefer that you stay out of my head.”

Unable to trust himself to speak, Charles only nodded. Mr. Lensherr cleared his throat, and Charles shuffled his feet, aching to break the tension between them somehow. But he couldn't say what he really wanted to say, not in words. When he couldn't stand it any longer, Charles decided to ignore Mr. Lensherr's previous caution and thought to him, _if you're going to imagine me, you could at least picture me the way i actually am_.

“What?”

With some effort, Charles recalled Mr. Lensherr's fantasy; he flashed the image of himself bent over, ass spread, in Mr. Lensherr's mind, then thought, _that's not what i look like_. To replace the inaccurate picture, Charles sent Mr. Lensherr his own memories of standing naked in his bathroom at home: staring at himself in the mirror, examining his body from the front and the side, counting the freckles on his upper arms, and peering over first one shoulder, then the other, to assess the boniness of his shoulderblades and the gentle swell of his ass.

Mr. Lensherr closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Stop, Charles,” he said, and Charles obeyed. Mr. Lensherr rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, then dragged his hand down over his face. “You have no idea what you do to me,” he said, turning his head to look down the hall, away from Charles.

“I guess I don't,” Charles said. “How could I?”

Mr. Lensherr twiddled his fingers in the air, like a conductor signaling his orchestra, and the padlock on Charles's locker danced to its own jangling tune. “Wasn't what you saw enough?”

“But that wasn't _me_ ,” Charles insisted.

“It was all I had,” Mr. Lensherr said. He laid his palm flat on the door of the locker beside Charles's, as if he needed to ground himself in the metal.

“Well,” Charles said, beginning to get annoyed, “now you have more. I gave you more.” He sniffed and wiped his nose on the cuff of his shirt. “Isn't that good? Aren't you happy?”

Mr. Lensherr shrugged. “You shouldn't have felt as if you needed to give me anything.”

“I didn't exactly _want_ to give you anything,” Charles said and crossed his arms. “I just didn't want you to have the wrong idea about me.”

For a long and uncomfortable moment, Mr. Lensherr studied Charles. His focus flickered from Charles's face, down to the rest of his body, and then to the side as two sophomores passed by, engaged in a lazy morning conversation about work they had not yet done. “I've failed you,” he said once the other students were out of earshot. “None of this should have been an issue until after you'd turned eighteen.”

“Sure.” Charles lowered his voice to guard against being overheard. “Because I shouldn't know anything about sex until I graduate. Right?”

“You know that's not what I mean,” Mr. Lensherr said. “It's just that I never wanted to put you in this position.”

“Too late.” Charles sighed. “But, look, it's not a huge deal. Really. I just won't read your mind anymore, and you won't think about me in class. OK?” Mr. Lensherr nodded. “Truce?”

Charles stuck out his hand, inviting Mr. Lensherr to shake on it, but Mr. Lensherr took Charles's hand, turned it palm-down, and lifted it to his lips. He kissed Charles's knuckles and murmured, “It's better than I deserve.”

“It's really not,” Charles said. A high-pitched laugh escaped, and he clamped his lips shut to cut it off. After taking back his hand as quickly as he could without causing offense, Charles felt around in the minds of the other people in the hallway and tried to ascertain whether any of them had seen Mr. Lensherr's rather old-fashioned display of affection. As far as he could tell, none of them had.

“I'll see you in class,” Mr. Lensherr said casually, as if he and Charles had not just argued, or even talked about anything more significant than the weather. Then, before Charles do anything more than gape at him, Mr. Lensherr turned and walked down the hall to his classroom. Charles watched as he unlocked the door, went inside, turned on the lights, and closed the door behind him.

Feeling another burst of dangerous laughter welling up inside of him, Charles quickly opened his locker door and stuck his head inside. He grabbed the sleeve of his coat and pressed his face into it. His nose mashed against the rough wool, and he felt his eyelashes catch on the fabric as he blinked rapidly. He laughed silently for almost half a minute, overcome by the absurdity of the situation—a situation with which he had been living, without much complaint, for more than three and a half years.

He was just taking a deep, calming breath when Hank came up beside him. “Good morning,” Hank said. He leaned his shoulder against the locker on Charles's left, mirroring the pose that Mr. Lensherr had adopted earlier, and ruffled Charle's hair with his long fingers. “What's up?”

Charles raised his head. “Oh,” he said, “not much.”

 

The rest of February was largely uneventful for Charles. March wasn't much different, although Charles and Hank spent far more time studying than kissing as spring break approached and the number of tests and projects that were due escalated sharply.

On the Friday before spring break, Charles woke up and stumbled out of bed. His head throbbed, and he felt more logy than he usually did in the morning. When he looked in the bathroom mirror, he saw that his face was flushed, so he took his temperature. The thermometer showed that he was running a fever of 100.2 degrees, and so he spent several minutes peering at his tonsils and trying to assess whether he felt at all nauseous or stuffed up before he recalled that a heightened temperature was one of the earliest symptoms of heat. With a groan, Charles retrieved his phone from the charger, checked the dates on his calendar, and found that it had been almost exactly sixth months since his first heat in September. “Great timing,” he grumbled as he stomped downstairs to inform his mother that he was too ill for school that day.

At twelve-thirty, Charles snuck out of his house and walked to school to drop off his essay for his government class. He felt light-headed in the cool spring air, the skin on his face and arms tingling like a thousand tiny bugs were crawling over him. Somehow, the sensation wasn't entirely unpleasant, though he spent a lot of his walk scratching himself through his coat and rubbing at the back of his neck. He arrived at school just as classes were changing, and drifted toward the social studies wing, dreamily navigating the knots of juniors and seniors hanging out at their lockers. He passed Hank, but didn't even notice until Hank shot out an arm and grabbed the strap of his messenger bag. “Charles?”

“Oh!” Charles turned and smiled. He let Hank pull him closer, out of the way of the other students. When Hank put his hand on his shoulder, Charles leaned into the touch. “Hi,” he said.

“I thought you were sick,” Hank said. “That's what you said this morning.” He pressed the back of his hand to Charles's forehead to gauge his temperature. “You look pretty out of it.” A passing junior—a boy both Charles and Hank knew vaguely because of his telekinetic abilities—slowed and gave Charles a lengthy, appraising look. Hank frowned at him until he looked away, then sniffed uncertainly. “Did—did you change shampoos or something? You smell, uh, different.”

Charles's smile grew even more vacant. “I'm in heat.”

“Oh,” Hank said. “Oh my god.”

“I had to avoid physics this morning,” Charles explained. “Last time Mr. Lensherr got really mad that I came. But—” Charles paused as he rooted around in his messenger bag and pulled out a folder with a panda on the front. “But I have this essay for government that I _have_ to turn in, and Mr. Proudfoot hates when we try to email him stuff.” He opened the folder and took out his essay, then waved it in front of Hank's face as proof. “It's about John Locke.”

“'Last time?'” Hank asked weakly.

“Yeah,” Charles said, “this is my second time.” With great reverence, he put his essay back into the folder and hugged the folder to his chest. Then he fell forward to snuggle against Hank. “You're so warm,” he sighed.

“Uh-huh.” Hank took Charles by the shoulders and gently pushed him upright. “Listen, why don't I turn in the paper for you?”

“You don't have to.”

“I know.” Hank pushed Charles's hair back off his forehead, then patted his cheek maternally. “But I really think you should just go home.”

Charles tried to stifle a laugh and failed. “You worry too much. It'll only take me a minute.”

“But after that you'll go straight home, right?”

“Sure.” Charles tapped Hank's chest with the edge of his folder. “Can you come over after school?”

“If you want.”

“Can you spend the night?”

“Probably,” Hank said. “I'll have to go home first and check.”

Charles nodded. “Get condoms while you're out.”

Trying to hide his blush, Hank ducked his head. He raised his eyebrows and gave Charles a pained look over the top of his glasses. “Seriously?”

Charles patted Hank's forearm. “The bell's going to ring, and I still have to turn in my paper,” he said as he detached himself from Hank. On impulse, he caught one of Hank's hands in his own and lifted it to his mouth. He kissed each of Hank's knuckles in turn, lowered Hank's hand, and said “See you soon.” Then he turned and headed to the stairwell to go find Mr. Proudfoot and turn in his essay.

When Charles returned home, he went straight up to his room and stripped down to his underwear. Shivering in the cool air, he ran his hands lazily over his bare chest and down his sides to his upper thighs. After a moment of contemplation, he decided to take a shower. He grabbed his favorite pair of old running shorts, which he now wore mostly for bed and lounging around his room in the summer, and went into the bathroom. He kept his shower lukewarm, to prevent himself from getting too comfortable or excited. After all, Hank would be there soon. Charles imagined having Hank with him in the shower, nudging his thighs open, both of them wet and slippery. His cock leapt to attention at the thought, and Charles took that as a sign to finish rinsing his hair and get out. He was tempted to jerk off, but ultimately he decided to conserve his energy for when Hank was there to help him. Charles turned off the water, stepped out, and toweled himself dry. Condensation had fogged the mirror, so he used the towel to wipe it off as best he could. He smoothed down his shorts, briefly admiring the way his erection was very visible through the thin fabric. Then he went back to his bedroom, put on the extended DVD of _The Fellowship of the Ring_ and laid face-down on the comforter as he watched. He kept his phone on his pillow, and checked the time obsessively whenever Aragorn wasn't onscreen.

Just after three o'clock, he got a text from Hank: “im ok to spend the nite. be ther in 30.” Charles smiled down at his phone and humped his hips against the bed, shifting his pelvis back and forth as he replied: “k, see you soon.”

At almost a quarter to four, Hank knocked on the door to Charles's bedroom. “Come in,” Charles called as he used the remote to pause the DVD.

Hank opened the door and stepped inside. “Oh,” he said when he saw Charles lying on the bed, shirtless and curling his toes into the smooth, soft crevices of his bedspread. He closed the door behind him and slipped his backpack off his shoulder. “You're already—”

“I'm _very_ ready,” Charles purred.

Hank coughed and shuffled his feet. “Uh, so, Raven let me in?”

“Yeah. I think she's spending the night at Angel's, though.” Charles smiled, then rolled over onto his back and absently trailed his fingers up his abdomen.

“Thank god,” Hank said as he shucked off his coat. “What about your mom? Is she going to care?”

Charles shook his head. “Don't worry, I'll make sure she doesn't.” He arched his back, pressing his shoulder blades down as he lifted his hips up off the mattress to display himself. “Did you bring condoms?”

Hank hesitated. “I did,” he said, but knelt down as he undid his shoelaces and avoided meeting Charles's eyes.

“What?” Charles rolled onto his side and hung over the edge of the bed. “You _are_ going to fuck me, right?”

Embarrassed, Hank finished pulling off his sneakers and stood up. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and pretended to examine the old action figures Charles had set up on his bookshelf. “I don't know if I should,” he finally mumbled.

Charles blew out an irritated breath into his comforter, briefly inflating the space between the cover and the filler. “What does that mean?”

“We've never, you know, done it before. Not all the way.” Hank took a step back as Charles's expression darkened. “And you aren't really acting so much like yourself right now.”

Whining and writhing, Charles pulled his rumpled bedsheets around himself and snarled, “I could make you if I wanted.”

Hank swept his arms out expansively. “See, that's what I mean, right there. You're like some sort of sex demon right now.” He shook his head and used his middle finger to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “And then there's Mr. Lensherr—”

“Mr. Lensherr does _not_ own me!” Charles shouted. He punched his pillow with a wordless cry of frustration, then fell face-first into the indent his fist had left.

There was a long pause, during which Charles heard Hank unzip his backpack and fumble with something in a plastic bag. When Hank sat down beside him on the bed, the mattress dipped, and Charles's body inclined toward Hank's as if a magnetic force were drawing them together. Hank touched his bare shoulder, then skimmed his fingers over the nape of Charles's neck. “I brought you a present.” This was news that Charles was unable to resist; he lifted his head and looked over his shoulder at Hank. “It was going to be for your birthday,” Hank continued, “but then I thought, well, now would be better.”

Hank held the present out to him, and Charles couldn't stop a smile from creeping over his face. “A vibrator?” he asked. Hank nodded, and Charles laughed. “Where did you get it?”

“Spencer's,” Hank said. He twisted the vibrator around so Charles could admire its smooth curves and the ridges near the base. “Do you like it?”

“We'll see,” Charles said. He kicked away his comforter and coyly slipped his shorts down and off so he could open his legs and stroke his cock. His voice hitched as he told Hank, “Use it on me.”

Hank fiddled with the base, turning it on to the lowest setting. He got on his knees between Charles's splayed thighs and pressed the tip of the active vibrator just under Charles's stiff cock, then moved it down to stroke over his visibly swollen glands. Charles keened loudly. Startled, Hank started to draw back, but Charles clamped his hand down over Hank's wrist and growled, “Don't you dare stop.”

“OK,” Hank said. He used his free hand to take off his glasses, fold them closed, and tuck them into his shirt pocket. The vibrator buzzed on, and Charles's hips twitched up, anxious for more stimulation. Hank urged Charles to hook one knee over his shoulder, then lowered his mouth to the tip of Charles's leaking cock, fluttering his tongue as he gradually inserted the vibrator into Charles.

Charles moaned and reached one hand down to tangle his fingers in Hank's hair, pushing down with his palm just enough to signal to Hank that he was fed up with being teased. Hank sucked harder, making Charles pant out, “Oh yes, oh please, oh my god.” He kicked his heel down on Hank's back and curled his toes. “So good. Go faster, _please_.” Hank moved the vibrator steadily in and out of him, and Charles scratched his nails over Hank's scalp, as if he were rewarding a puppy for successfully rolling over when commanded. “Mmm,” Charles said, “your hair is really soft.” Hank rolled his eyes up to the ceiling, but didn't take his mouth off of Charles's cock. “I'm going to link us,” Charles warned him. “I want you to come along with me.”

When Hank made no objection, Charles went into his head and bridged the gap between them. As Hank received Charles's pleasure, he hummed, and Charles felt the sound vibrating at the base of his erection. The mattress rocked rhythmically as Hank undulated his hips, grinding down to stimulate himself. Hank's arousal made Charles whine and bump his own hips up to meet the vibrator. _i'm so close_ , he thought.

 _a-l-r-e-a-d-y_?

 _don't worry_ , Charles thought as he stretched his free hand back over his head and gripped his pillow. _i'll be able to do this all night_. He went rigid as his orgasm built inside of him, growing from his pelvis to his chest to his skull like a swelling cloud of smoke that finally overtook him, fogging his senses with release. As the sensations made their way to Hank, he felt the ripples of a second orgasm. He laughed, short and loud, as he rode the crest of climax alongside Hank. _did you come in your pants_? He thought as the peak began to retreat, and his muscles trembled in the aftermath.

 _y-e-s_ , Hank thought back. He lifted his head. Charles relaxed his hold on Hank's hair, smoothed it down flat, and moved his hand to stroke down one of Hank's flushed cheeks. “Jesus, Charles.”

“What?” Charles pushed back his own hair and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Wasn't it good?” He grinned and smeared his thumb over a drop of wetness at the corner of Hank's mouth. “Did it taste different?”

“It was, uh, tangier than normal.” Hank turned the dial on the bottom of the vibrator, shutting it off. Charles sighed wistfully. “But no, I just meant that it was really... intense.” He rolled over, then sat up. “I have to, um—” He splayed his fingers out over his crotch, indicating the growing wet spot on his khakis.

Charles nodded. “Go on,” he said and moved his hand between his open thighs. “I'll entertain myself.”

By the time Hank returned from the bathroom, wearing a pair of flannel pajama pants and an oversized New York Giants t-shirt, Charles had already used the vibrator to give himself another small orgasm. Leaning against the closed bedroom door, Hank watched Charles mewl his way through another tight shiver of satisfaction. “This is ridiculous,” he said, as Charles paused to catch his breath. “There's no way I'll be able to keep up with you.”

“You don't have to keep up,” Charles panted. “Just _help_ me.” He reached one hand out to Hank, beckoning him closer. “Please? I'll make it all worth it to you when you're ready to go again.”

Hank sighed and got back into bed into bed with Charles. “What do you want me to do?” he asked. “Use my mouth again?”

“You don't have to,” Charles said. Instead he pulled Hank on top of him, so they could be face to face, and had Hank take over the operation of the vibrator. If he closed his eyes and ignored the mechanical buzzing sound, Charles could almost pretend that Hank was inside him. He tried to hold back, but soon a loud, uninhibited groan escaped him.

Hank covered Charles's mouth with his hand. “Shh,” he said. “What if your mom hears you?”

 _she won't_ , Charles thought. _too far away_. He nipped at Hank's palm, a little turned on by the show of force.

“You're lucky you live in a mansion,” Hank muttered. He removed his hand and wiped Charles's spit off on the pillowcase.

Charles tilted his chin up, exposing his neck, and thought, _kiss me_. Hank lowered his mouth to Charles's neck, licking down to the V between his collarbones, then dragged his lips to the soft skin at the spot where Charles's neck met his shoulder. He caught the flesh gently in his teeth and began to suck.

Climax approached with every thrust of the vibrator and every pulse from Hank's lips and tongue, and Charles's thoughts soon turned to Mr. Lensherr. He closed his mind off from Hank as he recalled how, during his last heat, Mr. Lensherr had been in his head, helping him. He rather missed Mr. Lensherr's firm, no-nonsense instructions, even though it had been embarrassing at the time. When orgasm became imminent, Charles imagined Mr. Lensherr in his car, fist moving furiously over his cock as he masturbated. He came hard and long, jerking arrythmically beneath Hank and wailing between his clenched teeth. Hank raised his head, and Charles kissed his forehead, his cheek, and finally his lips. “So good,” he said. “So tired.”

Once Charles had calmed, Hank withdrew the vibrator and switched it off. He set it upright on its base on Charles's nightstand, then laid back down beside Charles. He toyed with a messy tangle of Charles's hair as he said, “Super-intense.”

“I think now is a good time for a break,” Charles whispered.

Hank lifted his head and looked at the clock. “It's after five.”

“I'm glad you're here.” Charles put his hand on Hank's chest and felt for his heartbeat. He molded his body to Hank's side and said, “It's nice to have someone to help me.”

“Last time must have sucked, huh?”

“Eh.” Charles shrugged.

A loud buzzing interrupted them. “My phone,” Charles said muzzily. He waved his hand toward the nightstand. “I got a text. Can you grab it for me?” Hank pulled the phone off the charger and handed it to Charles. Charles unlocked it and stifled a gasp.

“What?” Hank asked. “Who's it from?”

Charles forced his gasp to become a chuckle. “Just Moira. You know, her big Model U.N. thing is coming up? So Bill's being more of an ass than usual.”

“Ugh, U.N. drama. Wake me when it's over.”

Hank closed his eyes, but Charles shook him until he opened them again. “Will you go down and get me a snack? And stuff to drink?”

“I guess. But it's so far away,” Hank complained, half-joking. “Anyway, what will your mom say?”

Charles put two fingers to his temple and concentrated for a moment. “Nothing now,” he said and relaxed. “She doesn't even remember that I stayed home sick.”

Hank stared at him, bemused. “I can't get over how easy that is for you,” he said.

“Well, yeah.” Charles stared down at his phone, bringing up Facebook and scrolling past his friends' posts without reading them. “I can't get over how you can hang by your toes from the chin-up bar in gym. So?”

“So, I mean, you always bitch and moan about doing that stuff at school and how you don't want to control people.”

“Look,” Charles said, rolling onto his side and propping his head up with one hand. “I do it to _them_ to keep them happy. You think mom and Kurt really want to know that I'm in heat? And that you're up here with your big hands all over me, helping me through it instead of playing _Portal_?”

Hank nodded. “Makes sense.” He pulled Charles in close and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “I'll be back,” he said.

Charles watched him leave, then turned his attention back to the phone and the text he'd gotten, not from Moira, but from Mr. Lensherr. It read: “I take it this time has been more enjoyable than the last?”

“what are you talking about?” Charles texted back.

He didn't have to wait long for his phone to buzz again. “You're in heat,” Mr. Lensherr's text read. Charles pictured him sitting with his own phone, maybe still at his desk at school, grading tests, waiting for Charles's reply.

“how do you know?” Charles wrote back. While he was typing, Bustopher Jones slipped through the door that Hank had left ajar, mewed plaintively, and hopped up onto the bed.

“I can tell. I know it's going well, just like last time I knew it wasn't,” Mr. Lensherr replied. As Charles debated how to respond to this, Mr. Lensherr added, “I don't know how I know. I just do.”

“ok.” After a moment, Charles wrote, “you're right.”

“Have fun,” Mr. Lensherr texted.

“thanks,” Charles wrote. “i will.” He hooked his phone back up to the charger, determined not to check it if Mr. Lensherr texted him again. But his phone remained silent. Charles rolled onto back, petted his cat, and puzzled over what he could have possibly transmitted to Mr. Lensherr. He closed his eyes and tried to build up the mental defenses he normally used against Miss Frost, but those were difficult to maintain when he wasn't concentrating. Besides, Mr. Lensherr wasn't trying to get into his head. He was just receiving something that Charles didn't mean to send. So, after a short period of deliberation, Charles decided not to worry about it. When Hank returned with hastily-made peanut butter sandwiches, apples, granola bars, and a can of Coke for each of them, Charles pushed all thoughts of Mr. Lensherr from his mind without any great difficulty.

He and Hank feasted together, then Charles stretched out on his back, pleasantly full and sleepy even though his arousal was waxing once again. But the process was slower, a simmer rather than a boil, and he didn't protest when Hank shooed Bustopher Jones out of the room, started _The Fellowship of the Ring_ from the beginning, and curled up beside Charles. They watched up until the Fellowship entered the Mines of Moria, then began to kiss again. Hank hit pause on the remote and helped Charles reach two more orgasms. Afterward, he pressed play, and Charles was asleep before the Balrog attacked.

When he woke, the movie was over and the television screen was still on, showing a pool of electric blue that kept the room from dissolving into inky, disorienting darkness.

Charles pulled the blanket up over his bare shoulder and huddled beside Hank. When he kissed Hank's cheek, Hank's eyelids fluttered open. “What time is it?” Hank whispered, barely moving his lips.

With a huff, Charles turned his head so he could see his alarm clock. “One-thirty-eight a.m.,” he enunciated, then let his head drop back down onto Hank's shoulder with a sigh. “I'm still in heat,” he said. Hank groaned. “Sorry,” Charles cringed. “You've been really good about this, and I'm glad you're here. I just—”

Hank kissed him, brushing his lips over Charles's just hard enough to stop Charles from saying anything more. Charles relaxed into the kiss and rolled his hips lazily against Hank. Hank turned onto his side and pushed his knee between Charles's thighs. He hugged Charles close, stroking his fingers up and down Charles's spine as they kissed with greater urgency. Soon, Hank pulled back and said, “If you want to, you know...”

“Huh?” Charles felt faintly dazed, as all of his attention had been diverted back to his aching cock and the wetness between his thighs.

Instead of answering, Hank sat up and reached over Charles to the nightstand. He picked up the box of condoms he had left there that afternoon. Charles watched as Hank opened the box, pulled out the folded string of condoms, ripped one off, and stuck the other two back into the box. He leaned over Charles a second time to replace the box on the nightstand, then sat back. “You still want to do it, right?” Hank cocked his head, concerned. “We don't have to.”

Charles closed his eyes. He thought of Kitty Malone and how he'd told Jake that being with lots of other men had made him a better lover. “We've done everything else,” Charles whispered. “It'd be silly not to.”

Hank hesitated. “That's not a good reason.”

“Well,” Charles said, rolling onto his back and letting his head thud back against the soft pillow, “what would be a good reason?”

“Being in love.” Hank cringed. “Sorry, that's corny.”

Charles put his arm around Hank's waist. “No. It's nice.”

“But?”

“No buts,” Charles shrugged. “It is nice, because you're a nice person.”

“But I'm not Mr. Lensherr.”

“So? I'm glad you're not.”

“But you like him better.”

“Hank, I don't _know_ him. Not the way I know you.”

“You don't love me, though,” Hank said, his words hitching as if he couldn't quite draw a full breath. “Right?”

Charles tightened his hold on Hank. “No, I do love you.” A hot burst of anger flared inside him. “How can you even think I don't? We do practically everything together! We talk on IM every night before bed!” Hank stared down at his hands and didn't say anything. Charles's anger dulled, vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. “How, Hank?”

“I don't know,” Hank mumbled. “It's just, Mr. Lensherr—”

“Forget him,” Charles said curtly. “He's not in my life now, not really. You are.” Hank nodded, and something in Charles's chest relaxed, allowing the insistent tingle between his legs to make itself known once again. “Which is why I want you to be my first.” He squeezed Hank's hip. “OK?”

Hank smiled, and as Charles watched him in the soft blue light from the TV screen, he saw Hank as something strange, otherworldly, and dangerously beautiful. The curve of his lower lip, his long eyelashes, the way his hair swooped across his forehead all made Charles feel light-headed and far away. He was sure, for a moment, that he didn't know Hank at all, despite their long friendship. “You can be a real pain in the ass sometimes,” Hank said, not unkindly.

“Yeah,” Charles admitted. “But you like me anyway, right?”

“I really do,” Hank said. He bent over, kissed the top of Charles's head, and then rolled over on top of him. He nuzzled Charles's neck, then helped him to open his legs. His hands groped Charles's thighs and quickly moved to tease Charles's cock. Charles pulled his knees up higher, giving Hank greater access. They kissed fitfully as Hank's fingers entered Charles, eliciting a pleased whimper.

Charles clutched at Hank's shoulders and dug his heels into Hank's back. “Go on,” he whispered when Hank hesitated. “It's good.”

Hank nodded, withdrew his fingers, and sat back. He pushed the waistband of his pajama pants down and gave his cock a few hard tugs. Charles stretched his arms over his head and clutched his pillow. As Hank clumsily rolled on the condom, Charles closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Hank stretched out over him, holding himself up with one hand while he used the other to guide his cock into Charles. When Hank's hips were finally flush with his own, Charles cooed soft nonsense under his breath and thought, _very nice_.

“Should I move?” Hank asked.

 _yes_ , Charles thought with a gentle laugh, **_please_**. Hank rocked his hips back and forth, watching Charles for a reaction. Charles stared at the ceiling until he couldn't wait any longer. _you could go faster_ , he noted.

Hank's irritated sigh puffed against Charles's neck, warm in a way that prompted Charles to lift his head and brush his lips over Hank's cheek. “I didn't want it to hurt,” Hank said.

 _it doesn't_ , Charles thought. He turned his head to look at Hank, just as Hank let his chin fall forward, and so Hank's forehead collided with Charles's nose. “Ow!” Charles cried, more surprised than in pain.

Hank kissed the tip of Charles's nose. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbled. His head dipped and his parted lips grazed Charles's. Charles returned the kiss in order to prevent a second impact between them. As the fervor of their kiss increased, Hank's body jerked against Charles, finding a tentative rhythm. He broke their kiss to gasp out: “Better?”

“It'll do,” Charles said with a coy smile. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on how it felt to have Hank inside him, how Hank smelled, how he panted in time with his thrusts. But sensation alone wasn't quite enough to satisfy him. Charles tried pulling his knees in closer to his chest, changing the angle of entry. When Hank moved his hands to Charles's thighs, holding him in place, Charles was trapped in an increasingly uncomfortable position. His back ached, the muscles in his thighs trembled, and he had to struggle to catch his breath. Even worse, all the discomfort was for nothing, as Hank was still being too slow and tentative to satisfy him. “Stop,” Charles finally croaked out, pushing both hands against Hank's shoulders.

Hank froze. His grip on Charles's thighs loosened, and Charles relaxed his legs with a groan. “What?” Hank asked, panicked. “What's wrong?” Charles shook his head. He started to reply, then thought better of it, and instead put one of his hands over Hank's, stroking his long fingers. “Why isn't it good?” Hank squeezed Charles's palm in his. “What am I doing wrong?”

“Nothing,” Charles said. He was a little afraid that Hank would cry. “It's good. Really.”

“You don't like it.” Hank arched forward and rested his forehead on Charles's shoulder, sullen and unmoving.

“I'm tired,” Charles admitted. “And I thought it'd be more... intense.”

“So let's just forget about it.”

“No,” Charles whined. He clutched his knees together, trapping Hank at the waist. _kiss me again_ , he thought. Hank pecked him on the lips without much enthusiasm. Charles frowned. _that's no good_.

_“What?”_

_you should kiss me like an alpha_ , Charles thought. He was glad that the room was too dark for Hank to see him blush.

Hank took a moment to consider this. “Harder?”

 _not exactly_. Charles sent Hank the first thing that came to mind as an appropriate illustration: his own fantasy of Jake sweeping Kitty Malone off his feet, shielding him from danger, and kissing him with wild abandon. To Charles's dismay, Hank snorted out a very unattractive giggle. “Hey!” Charles smacked his palm down on Hank's back. “Quit it!”

“You want to be a catboy?”

“Oh, come on!”

“Sorry,” Hank said. “But usually you get all weird if I treat you too much like a girl.”

“I don't want to be treated like a girl,” Charles said. He paused, uncertain as to what, exactly, marked the difference between being treated like a girl and being treated like an omega. “It's complicated.”

“Yeah.” Hank swiveled his hips in a slow figure-eight pattern. “I'm still in you.”

“I know.”

“I think that's kind of hot,” Hank said. He kissed Charles again, this time pushing his tongue insistently against Charles's lips, demanding entry. Charles relaxed beneath him, dropping his jaw and sliding his tongue alongside Hank's. As he wrapped his arms around Hank's neck, Hank squeezed Charles's thighs. A sinuous undulation of his spine ended with a sharp thrust of Hank's pelvis, and the force of the contact made Charles draw a quick breath and open his eyes wide.

 _fuck me_ , Charles thought, as aroused his own bold, dirty thoughts as he was by the movement of Hank's body. _fuck me rough_. He was relieved when Hank obeyed him, pumping hard enough to drive Charles into the mattress and make the headboard knock against the wall. The last insistent itch of his heat flared as his cock twitched against his belly.

“I can't keep this up.” Hank huffed for breath as he clutched at Charles, sliding his hands up and down his sides. “I'll come.”

Charles put one hand between them and fingered the tip of his cock. _wait_ , he thought. _don't stop. i'm close. soon_. He closed off his mind to Hank as he thought about Mr. Lensherr in bed, alone, touching himself while thinking about Charles, aching for him, unable to have him. The idea made Charles feel hollow inside, and he thought, _fill me up fill me please_ —not to Hank or to Mr. Lensherr, but to himself. The words circled his mind, spiraling inward as orgasm overtook him. He clung to Hank and keened softly. When Hank went stiff and sucked in a breath, Charles murmured, “So good.” By the time Hank relaxed, however, tears had leaked from the corners of Charles's eyes and run down his temples to pool, cold and itchy, in his ears. Charles turned his face into the pillow as Hank pulled out of him, removed the condom, wrapped it in a tissue, and tossed it into the trash.

“Are you OK?” Hank asked, putting his hand on Charles's shoulder.

“Yeah,” Charles said and sniffed. “Could you—do you mind getting me a glass of water?”

“Are you crying?”

 _yeah_ , Charles thought. The pillowcase was developing an unpleasant wet spot, and he shifted to escape it. _sorry_. When Hank hesitated, he added, _water would help_.

“Be right back,” Hank muttered as he got out of bed. He adjusted his sweatpants and left the room, pulling the door shut behind him.

Charles sat up, took a tissue from the box, and blew his nose. His sadness began to ebb, leaving him limp and lazy with the aftereffects of his orgasm. Hank came back, carrying a tall, cold glass of water, and Charles drank half of it in several long gulps. “Thanks,” he said.

“Do you need anything else?” Hank asked. Charles shook his head. Hank sat beside him and put his arm around Charles's shoulder. “Are you sure you're OK?”

“Just tired,” Charles said. “It's been kind of a long day.” He tucked his head under Hank's chin. “I'm ready to go to bed for real.”

“Sounds good to me,” Hank said. He fumbled around under the pillow on his side of the bed and eventually came up with the remote for the TV. He hit the power button and the room went very dark. Charles hugged Hank for a moment, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dim light coming in his window from the street. Hank blinked too, but didn't shut his eyes to sleep. Finally, he whispered, “Charles?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you feel any different?”

Charles thought about this. “I feel... adult?” He curled his fist loosely in the sheets and pulled them up to his chin. “Like, grown-up, I guess.”

“Yeah,” Hank said. He cupped Charles's cheek with one hand and stroked his thumb over the rise of his cheekbone. “Good night,” he whispered.

“'Night,” Charles said. He closed his eyes and listened to the wind gusting through the tree outside his window. Hank's breathing became slower, more even. He twisted a little in Hank's embrace, searching for the perfect spot. _good night_ , he thought to Mr. Lensherr, even though he doubted that Mr. Lensherr would really be able to hear him. _good night, good night_.

 

Late in the evening on Thursday of the week of spring break, Cain returned home from a trip to Cancun he had taken with friends from school. Charles was unaware that Cain had arrived, since he'd been firmly ensconced in his room and watching _The Colbert Report_ at the time.

At about ten-thirty the next morning, Charles woke up, threw on an old, thin t-shirt and a pair of running shorts, and went downstairs to get himself breakfast. He was spreading cream cheese over the toasted halves of his bagel when Cain came up behind him and smacked his ass, like one baseball player to another. He laughed when Charles jumped. “Hey, pint-size,” he said. “What are you doing?”

“Making breakfast,” Charles said. “Duh.” He scraped the knife clean on the sharp edge of the bagel, rather than licking the extra cream cheese off of the knife as he normally would have. “When did you get here?”

“Like midnight.” Cain opened the refrigerator door and pulled out a can of Coke. “Cancun was so awesome,” he said, as if Charles cared enough to be envious. “Too bad you were stuck here all week.”

“Yeah, a real shame.”

Cain grinned, making Charles feel uneasy. “But hey, last night when we were dropping Matt off we decided to get pizza, and his sister was there. Kara? She's in your class, right?”

“So?”

“So she told me that you have a boyfriend.” He waggled his eyebrows at Charles, and Charles shrugged. Cain laughed. “Fag.”

“What do you care?” Charles spat back, not looking up from the kitchen counter.

Cain popped the top on his Coke and took a long pull. “She said you were putting out for a teacher. That asshole who teaches science?”

Very slowly, and with more caution than was necessary, Charles flipped one half of his bagel over atop the other to make himself a sandwich. “That's not true,” he whispered.

“Oh shit,” Cain said. “You are, you totally _are_. Man, wait till Dad and Sharon find out!” He laughed again, loud and long. “Perfect little Charles is really a secret slut!”

“Shut up!” Charles slammed his hand down on the counter top and rounded on Cain. His palm stung, but it scarcely registered as painful. “Shut up! That's _not_ true!”

“You are going to be in so much shit!”

Charles's fists tightened as panic overtook him. “If you say anything to them, anything at all,” he choked out, “I'll tell them—I'll tell everyone what you tried to do to me when I was twelve!” It was the first thing Charles could think of to use as leverage, but as soon as the words were out of his mouth and he saw Cain's expression, he regretted having said them.

“What are you talking about?” Cain asked. His brow furrowed and the corners of his mouth pulled down as he puzzled over Charles's threat.

“That summer we were at Martha's Vineyard,” Charles said weakly. His knees felt wobbly, but the muscles in his ass and thighs were tight, as if anticipating the need to flee. “You wanted me to take off my clothes...”

“Sounds pretty gay,” Cain said. “Are you sure you didn't dream that up?”

“You really don't remember.” Cain's ignorance and disdain made Charles want to cry at the sheer unfairness of time and memory, but he refused to do so in front of his step-brother. “Fuck you,” Charles said. His voice quavered, but he didn't care.

Cain opened his mouth to respond. Before he could say a word, Charles froze him in place. He proceeded to cut through Cain's memories, precisely excising Cain's recollection of talking to Kara about Charles and Mr. Lensherr. Then, with his chest puffed out and the cords of muscle in his neck strained, Charles peeled back the years, returning Cain's mind to that of the sixteen year old who made a grab for Charles in the shower stall at Martha's Vineyard. _you remember now, don't you_? Charles thought with a sneer.

Cain stared into the distance, dumb and cow-like, his eyes fixed on nothing. Charles picked up the plate holding his bagel and said, “If you ever touch me again, I'll make it so you can't remember past the third grade.” He turned on his heel, then stomped out of the kitchen and up the stairs to Raven's room. Outside her door, he stopped to take several deep breaths before he knocked. “It's me,” he called.

“Come in,” she called back.

Charles entered and shut the door behind him. Raven was sitting up in bed, still in her pajamas, laptop balanced on her knees. “Cain's here,” Charles said.

“I know.” Raven made a face. “I heard him come in last night.” She glanced up at Charles and stopped scrolling through her Tumblr dash. “What's wrong?”

“Someone told him about Mr. Lensherr.” Charles sat on the bed beside Raven. “But they said that I was sleeping with him, and so Cain was ready to tell mom and Kurt.”

“What did you say?”

Charles used his index finger to scoop up a blob of cream cheese that had oozed out of the side of his bagel, then stuck his finger in his mouth and sucked it off. “I wiped it out of his mind,” he said.

Raven cocked her head, squinted at Charles, and pushed a tangle of red hair back from her face. “ _Are_ you sleeping with Mr. Lensherr?”

“What?” Charles set his plate down on a flat spot on Raven's comforter and flailed out one arm in an expansive, bewildered gesture. “Seriously?”

“Well,” Raven said, “there's a rumor going around—”

“And you believe it?”

“No!” Raven whipped her head back and forth. “I mean, I don't know, I just wanted to make sure. Sorry.” A chat window pinged on her laptop, and she turned her attention to the screen as she typed a quick response. “But I wouldn't judge you if you were.”

“I'm not,” Charles said icily, still nursing his feelings of betrayal.

“But you want to,” Raven prompted.

Charles shrugged and took a bite of his bagel. He leaned over the plate to make sure he didn't accidentally spray any crumbs onto Raven's bed. “I don't know,” he said with his mouth full. “I like Hank.”

“Have you done it with Hank?” Charles's only response was a goofy grin. Raven pulled a face. “I won't ask for details.”

“I wasn't planning to give them,” Charles said. He popped the last bite of his bagel into his mouth. “I think I'm going to text him and see if I can come over.”

“Yeah.” Raven pushed her hair back behind her ears and leaned over her keyboard to type another response to her friend. Brow furrowed, she stared at her laptop screen and mused, “I bet Hank would be a good first time.”

“Um.” Charles fidgeted with the hem of his t-shirt. “It was OK.” He thought about the crush on Raven which Hank had nursed for years and decided to end the conversation before it went any further. “I'm going to go get dressed,” he said, grabbing his plate and sliding off Raven's bed.

Raven yawned and stretched her arms over her head. “Cool. I'm probably going to the mall with Angel.”

“Have fun,” he said.

“You too,” Raven called after him as he left.

Charles texted Hank, then pulled on jeans, a t-shirt, and a hoodie. Hank texted him back as he was brushing his teeth, saying that Charles could come over any time. Charles decided to walk to Hank's, and went downstairs to bundle himself into his coat, hat, and scarf. He passed Cain on his way out. He was still sitting at the kitchen table with a dumb, vacant look in his eyes, and Charles smiled with cold triumph as he shut the door firmly behind him.


	12. Chapter 12

At the beginning of May, Charles broke up with Hank. When Hank met him at his locker for lunch, Charles explained that, what with finals coming up in their college classes and AP exams to take, it just seemed easier if they didn't hang out so much.

Hank squirmed and nodded, then said, “But we're still going out. Right?”

“Well,” Charles said, trying to look busy with straightening his locker and putting books into his bag for the afternoon. “I just think that, I mean, because pretty soon we're going to go off to different schools...” He shrugged. “You know.”

“But you got accepted to Harvard, right?” Hank asked, eyes wide and a little desperate. “I thought I would go to MIT and you'd be at Harvard and so we wouldn't have to—”

“I decided to take Columbia's offer,” Charles said curtly, then added, “Sorry.”

Hank looked helpless and defeated. “You never said... I thought...”

“Sorry,” Charles said again. He shrugged as he shut his locker. “I decided I wanted to stay in the city.”

“To be near _him_ ,” Hank spat out, as if the the very thought tasted vile.

Charles did not confirm or deny this charge; there was no need to, just as there was no need to ask who Hank meant. Instead, he tilted his head to the side and considered how he might make things easier for Hank. He knew he could go into Hank's memories and remove all the evidence that they had ever been anything more than friends. It would require some effort, of course, but Charles was certain he could do it. Altering memories hardly seemed like a challenge anymore, after dealing with Cain. And Cain hardly seemed to have suffered any permanent damage. In fact, things had never been better for Charles, as Cain now avoided him when he was home and spoke to him only when it was absolutely necessary.

But changing Hank's memories not only felt too much like destroying something that was emotional and significant, but also like the willful destruction of a part of himself. So, instead, Charles siphoned off some of Hank's grief, easing the emotions out of him as gently as he possibly could. 

“Stop,” Hank said, pressing his fingers to his temple with a grimace.

“I just wanted to make it easier,” Charles said. 

“Well, don't.”

“Sorry.” Charles looked down the hall to avoid meeting Hank's eyes. The bell was about to ring. “Moira's going to be waiting.” When he turned back to Hank, Charles saw that he'd pushed his glasses up and was swiping at his eyes with two fingers. “We have class.”

“I know,” Hank said, irritated. He sniffed and rubbed his nose against the back of his hand. “Maybe I won't go.”

“But the exam—”

“Who cares? It's not like I'm going to fail it.”

“Yeah, but you're our ride,” Charles pointed out. “You're the only one with a car.”

“Oh,” Hank said. He looked so mournful and resigned that Charles regretted not waiting until after class to break up with him. “Then I'll go, I guess.” But he didn't move.

“I still want to be friends,” Charles ventured. 

Hank snorted. “Whatever.” He turned away from Charles and headed toward the stairs. Charles followed at a lagging pace to stay behind Hank. 

Moira was standing downstairs by the door, staring intently at her phone. She didn't look up until Hank brushed by her, shoving open the door and bursting out into the atrium. Her wide eyes met Charles's, and Charles gave her a mental shrug and thought, _we broke up_.

“You mean _you_ broke up,” she hissed as they followed Hank. 

_i guess_. Charles felt sullen, pinned as he was by Moira's accusing stare. _it's not like it was supposed to be forever_.

“Yeah, right.” She stuck her phone into the front pocket of her bag, shook out her hair, and added, “Thanks for making things awkward, though.”

A seed of panic took hold in Charles on the way to the student parking lot. _i want to stay friends_ , he thought to Moira. _what if he doesn't want to be friends_? But Moira could only shrug in reply as they approached Hank's car and, for the first time in months, she took the front seat. She fiddled with the radio, choosing a loud R &B station to cover the silence that had settled like nuclear fallout between Hank and Charles. 

Charles sat behind Moira and stared out the window to avoid inadvertently meeting Hank's eyes in the rearview mirror. He told himself that Hank would come around, eventually, and if he didn't, then it wouldn't matter much. Soon they would graduate and Hank would move away. They'd each make new friends. Besides, he would have Mr. Lensherr. But somehow that thought wasn't as reassuring now as it had been that morning, before he broke up with Hank. _Just hang on for a few more weeks_ , Charles thought to himself. Nicki Minaj tumbled out of the speakers; the bass thudded behind Charles's eyes. He cracked the window and closed his eyes against the breeze. _It'll all be over soon._

* * *

Their graduation ceremony was on the first Saturday in June, and Charles was relieved when the whole process was finished. It was a warm day and the air conditioning in the gym had not been adequate for the crowd of teenagers wearing robes over their dress clothes. As Raven took one last picture of him in his cap and gown, Charles saw Mr. Lensherr approaching through the throngs of parents and students. “Stick out your tongue and cross your eyes,” she instructed. Mr. Lensherr stopped behind Raven and looked on with interest. “This one's going on the mantle.” But instead of following her directions, Charles raised his eyebrows and jerked his chin up, straining to point without using his hands, until Raven said, “What?” and turned around. “Oh.” She lowered the camera and flushed.

“Hello, Raven,” Mr. Lensherr said. “Charles,” he added, tipping his head in Charles's direction.

“Uh, hi.” Raven pulled her eyes away from Mr. Lensherr and glanced at Charles. “You want me to go find mom?” she asked. 

Charles swept his mortarboard clumsily off of his head. “Sure,” he said. “OK.” Raven skipped off, her hot pink ponytail bobbing behind her. Charles ran his fingers through the silky strands of his tassel and watched her until she was no longer visible among the crowd of families and graduates. Then he turned to look back at Mr. Lensherr.

“Congratulations,” Mr. Lensherr said.

“It's just high school,” Charles said and shrugged.

“Of course. Soon you'll be off to bigger and better things.”

Charles couldn't be certain, but he thought he heard a sour twist warping Mr. Lensherr's words. “I decided to take the offer from Columbia,” he offered, hoping this would blunt the uncomfortable edge between them. “So it's not even like I'll be moving away, really.”

Mr. Lensherr stared off into the distance. “And that's what you wanted?”

“Yeah?” Mr. Lensherr looked skeptical at this, so Charles tried again. “I mean, yeah. It is.” Mr. Lensherr shook his head, unconvinced. “What?” Charles asked, crossing his arms.

“I figured you would be shooting for Harvard or Stanford.”

“Columbia is a good school,” Charles said. “And I like New York.”

“It's up to you.” Mr. Lensherr said grudgingly. “Anyway. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Charles smoothed down the front of his gown, then blurted out, “Can I get a hug?”

Mr. Lensherr looked from one side to the other, as if he were preparing to cross a busy road. “All right,” he agreed, when he was satisfied that no one was paying any attention to them. He held his arms out stiffly, and Charles leaned into them. But when Charles pressed too far forward, trying to bring their hips together, Mr. Lensherr shifted his weight back onto one foot too avoid any unnecessary contact. He patted Charles on the back, then took hold of his shoulders and separated them. “All right?”

Charles cocked his head and didn't answer. “You know,” he said, “since you aren't my teacher now...”

“Yes?”

“Do I still have to call you Mr. Lensherr?”

“Oh. No, I guess not.”

“I can call you Erik?” 

“If you like.”

Charles nodded. “Erik?”

“What?”

“There's a party that I'm going to tonight,” Charles said, then looked away, suddenly shy. “But I was thinking, you know, maybe afterward I could drop by your place.”

Erik shook his head. “I don't think so.”

“Why not?”

“It's too fast,” Erik mumbled. He stuffed his hands into his pockets and took a step back. “Go to your party. Have a good time. We'll see each other again.”

“But—”

“Your sister is coming,” Erik said, nodding sharply off to the right, his gaze locked on a flash of pink over Charles's shoulder. He grasped Charles's upper arm, gave him a paternal squeeze, and said, “Have fun tonight. We'll talk later.” Then, before Charles could protest, he walked off to meet up with a group of teachers that were milling around the atrium doors.

Almost immediately Raven was at his side. “Is he gone?” she asked breathlessly. “Because mom and Kurt are coming.”

“Yeah,” Charles said, annoyed but not entirely discouraged. “I guess.”

“Oh. Well, mom says we're going out for lunch and you get to pick.” Raven fanned herself with her copy of the program for commencement and adjusted her ponytail. 

* * *

After lunch at Tyrynda Thai, they went straight home. Charles haphazardly folded up his robe, stuck it in a plastic bag with his cap and tassel, and changed out of his button-down shirt, tie, and trousers and into a pair of jeans and a carefully chosen light-blue v-neck t-shirt. He dithered around his room, checking Facebook and wondering whether he should try texting Mr. Lensherr— _Erik_ —to argue his case again. Instead he googled Erik's address, added the result to the contacts on his phone, and saved the directions. At three-thirty, Moira arrived in her mom's car to give him a ride to Armando's party. When he got her text, he rushed downstairs, promised his mom that he'd call if he needed a ride and he'd be back by one a.m. at the absolute latest, and hurried out to the driveway to meet Moira. He got in the front passenger seat after Moira moved her purse and brushed away a few candy wrappers. “Ready?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Charles said. “Of course.” They chatted about how graduation had gone and who was supposed to be coming to Armando's. “Will Hank be there?” Charles asked.

Moira shrugged. “He said he was coming,” she said, then changed the subject to her family's upcoming trip to San Francisco. 

About fifteen people were milling around in Armando's backyard when they arrived, but Hank wasn't among them. Charles hated himself a little for being relieved, but he knew that having Hank at the party would just be awkward for the both of them. He said a silent, atheist's prayer to keep Hank away, then set about trying to enjoy himself. He ignored the pizza, chips, and potato salad, cut himself a piece of cake, and he and Moira sat down with Sean at one of the card tables that had been set up on the back porch. There were between fifteen and twenty people milling around the yard, with a core group of five or so kids—Armando and Alex included—playing an elaborate game involving a soccer ball and their combined mutant abilities. Armando's younger brothers raced along the sidelines, alternately egging Armando on and trying to distract him into making errors. As Charles watched, still more classmates drifted in while others hugged one another and made their exits, off to other graduation parties. 

Soon Sean and Moira were engaged in their own intense conversation about TV shows that Charles didn't watch, so Charles scraped up the final smears of icing from his paper plate and went to join in the ball game. He was at a disadvantage until he started using his powers to freeze other players for five seconds in embarrassing poses. Once his team began to pull ahead, he lost track of who was coming and going from the party, and so he didn't see Hank slink in and take the seat next Moira.

The game ended in a draw as the sun began to inch down in the sky and Armando and his dad lit the bonfire. Charles was about to go back to Moira and Sean when he saw Hank sitting with them, chewing on a pizza crust. He pushed his sweat-soaked bangs off his forehead and changed direction, going instead to grab a can of soda out of the cooler. Alex was already there, drinking a Pepsi. “Hey,” he said as Charles fished out a Mountain Dew. “You're staying tonight, right?”

“Sure,” Charles said. He rubbed the can over his forehead and the back of his neck before popping the tab and taking a pull.

“Cool,” Alex nodded and lowered his voice. “I got some beer for us, you know, for later.”

“Oh.” Charles grinned a little and snuck a look back at Hank. “Awesome.” 

“We've got a lot of stuff for a real party,” Alex added. “Is Moira staying?”

“I'll go ask her,” Charles said. He strolled over behind Moira and leaned on the back of her chair. Hank looked studiously down at his empty paper plate. “Hey, you guys are sticking around, right?”

“Oh. Sure, I guess?” Moira said, looking up at Charles with a crooked smile. Sean nodded too, hastily.

Charles glanced over at Hank, who met his eyes for a brief moment before looking away. “Not me,” Hank said. “Actually, I think I'm just going to go now.” He stood up before any of them could protest. Sean and Moira called out stilted goodbyes, and Hank waved back as he disappeared around the side of Armando's house.

“Poor Hank,” Moira murmured, but didn't press the subject.

As it got darker out, the party dwindled to himself, Sean, Moira, Armando, Alex, and Angel, whom Armando had invited even though she wouldn't graduate for another year. Once Armando's younger brothers had been put to bed and his parents had retreated, they huddled around the fire, waving away mosquitoes while Alex went out to his car and hauled back the twenty-four pack of Budweiser he'd managed to obtain. As they passed cans around, Angel unearthed a minibar's worth of airplane-sized liquor bottles from her giant Vera Bradley purse. “Stole them from my parents,” she said, tossing her hair back. “They won't notice.”

“How'd you get the beer?” Sean asked Alex.

“This guy I work with at Chipotle,” Alex said. “He's in college.”

So they all drank and talked and Charles began to feel light-headed and lonely. Sean and Moira were cozied up together, and Charles watched as Moira leaned her shoulder against Sean's as she nursed her beer. He felt a flare of jealousy, which passed quickly and was replaced by a desperate wish to have Hank beside him. But he didn't want to be with Hank so much as he wanted to feel as if he belonged, not to a group of friends but to one person who would always be there. He listed to Armando and Alex talk about baseball and the latest _Call of Duty_ as he finished his second beer and polished off one of Angel's little bottles of vodka. He opened his third beer, sipped it, stared into the fire, and made a sudden decision. “I think I'm going to get out of here,” he said, setting his beer down on the grass and standing.

Armando and Alex looked at each other, then Armando stood up and gave Charles a hug. “Thanks for coming, man,” he said.

“I'll see you around.” Charles clapped him on the back, then waved to Alex, who waved back lazily.

“Hey,” Moira said, disentangling herself from Sean and standing up to block Charles's way. “I'm your ride.”

Charles stepped around her. “I know. I'm going to walk.” He headed out around the side of the house to the driveway, the same way Hank had gone earlier that evening. 

Moira followed him. “Are you drunk?” she hissed, as if fearing they would be overheard. “Your house is like five miles away! You can't walk home.”

“I'm not going home,” Charles said. “Erik's apartment is just down the street.”

“Erik?”

“Mr. Lensherr.”

“Seriously?” Moira jogged around Charles so that she could block his way. “He wants you to come over tonight? That's creepy.”

“It's not creepy,” Charles said, stopping in the middle of Armando's driveway and putting his hands on his hips. 

“We just graduated, and he's already inviting you over? It's kind of creepy.” 

Charles swayed, shuffling his feet to maintain his balance. “I don't care,” he said. “It's my choice.”

Moira frowned. “I guess... I'm just worried, is all.”

“Don't be. I can handle it. I can handle anything.” He twiddled his fingers mystically at his temples. “I have mind powers.”

“I guess,” Moira said, smiling but still doubtful. “But I still wish you'd hang out here.” She sniffed and rubbed at her eyes, then took a deep breath.

Charles reached out and squeezed her shoulder. “It's not like this is the last time we're going to see each other,” he said. “And I'll text you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, OK.”

“Go have fun.”

“You too,” she said.

“I will.” 

* * *

Erik lived in an intimidatingly large apartment complex which sprawled out from a central renting office in a baffling ant farm of tributaries. Charles had to bring up the Google maps app on his phone just to find Erik's building. It was indistinguishable from the buildings to the left and the right of it, so Charles conscientiously double-checked the numbers on the side of the building before climbing the front step and pressing the button beside the name “Lensherr.” He waited a moment, then pressed it again. Another moment, and he pressed the button three quick times in a row. 

“Hello?” Erik's voice came over the speaker beside the doorbells, crackling and irritated.

“It's me,” Charles said. “I mean, it's Charles. I decided to come—” He was cut off by a loud buzzing sound that filled the vestibule. He stared at the door in drunken astonishment, and finally tried pushing on the door handle. He was overjoyed when the door yielded beneath his hand and swung open. He skipped inside and up the stairs. Number 203 was the second door on the left; Charles rapped on it with his knuckles as he stood on his tiptoes and tried to peer through the peephole, as if he would be able to see anything except blackness. Then he dropped back down and took a step back, lest Erik see him doing something so weird.

When Erik opened the door, he did not greet Charles or invite him inside. Instead, he leaned his shoulder against the doorjamb and covered his mouth with one hand. He was wearing a pair of thin, old sweatpants and t-shirt that was frayed around the collar.

“Hi!” Charles said, undeterred by either Erik's appearance or his expression. He spread his arms out and stepped forward.

Erik put out a hand and pressed it flat against Charles's chest, keeping him at arm's length. “I told you that I didn't want you to come here tonight.”

“I know.” Charles looked down at Erik's hand. He noticed that Erik's feet were bare and wiggled his own toes inside his sneakers in sympathy. When he raised his head, Charles put on his most winsome smile. “But I wanted to see you,” he said, and giggled as his balance failed him. He stumbled toward Erik, and Erik moved his hands to Charles's shoulders to steady him. 

“Have you been drinking?”

“Yeah,” Charles admitted, pleased at his own daring. “I had, uh, two beers.”

“That's it?”

“And a little, um, thing of vodka? It burned.” Charles shrugged. He frowned as it occurred to him that Erik did not seem nearly pleased enough by Charles's visit. “Don't you want to see me?”

“Yes,” Erik said, “but not like—nevermind.” He shook his head. “You should go home.”

Charles's lip wobbled. “You don't want me?”

“Oh god.” Erik rolled his eyes. “No, that's not—”

“I _can't_ go home!” Charles clasped his hands together, pleading with exaggerated fervor. “My mom and my stepdad, if they catch me, —!”

“OK, OK,” Erik said. He stepped to the side, keeping one hand on Charles's shoulder to guide him. “But you're only staying until you sober up.”

Charles leaned in and gave Erik a hug before he could object. “You're the best!” he said, rubbing his cheek against the front of Erik's t-shirt.

Erik sighed as he maneuvered Charles far enough inside that he could shut the door. “You know I have to remind you that you shouldn't be drinking at all until you're twenty-one, right?”

“Yeah,” Charles said. He lifted his head and snaked one arm around Erik's midsection. “But you're not my teacher any more. You can't tell me what to do.”

“Hmm.” Erik gently removed Charles's hand from around his waist. “Why don't you sit down,” he said, gesturing toward the couch in the living room, “and I'll get you some water.”

“I'm hungry,” Charles said, without showing the slightest inclination toward parting from Erik, even temporarily.

“Wasn't there food at the party?”

Charles shrugged. “I had some chips.” 

“I need to get groceries,” Erik said. He moved into the kitchen, and Charles followed. “How about an apple?”

“I like apples,” Charles said. Instead of a kitchen table, there was an island with two high bar stools pulled up along one side. Charles decided against trying to climb atop one of the stools, and leaned over the counter-top instead. “Did I wake you up?”

“What?” Erik pulled a bag of apples down from off the top of the refrigerator, took one out, and passed it to Charles. 

Charles took the apple from Erik's outstretched hand, but didn't bite into it. “You weren't asleep, right?”

“Oh. No, I wasn't asleep.” Erik glanced up at Charles, then looked away. “You want coffee?” he asked.

“Not really.” Charles rested his chin in his hand. “You look so hot,” he said, then giggled as he felt a blush spreading up his neck to his cheeks.

But Erik only sighed. He got a glass out of the cupboard, filled it with water from the sink, and handed it to Charles. “Go on,” he said, when Charles didn't take it immediately. Charles lifted the glass to his lips and sipped, keeping a resentful eye on Erik. “You should go have a seat,” Erik said, nodding to the couch in the living room.

“Will you sit with me?” Charles licked his lips and played with the collar of his t-shirt. Erik shrugged, and Charles slammed the glass down on the counter, far harder than he'd meant to. “Why are you being so mean?” he pouted.

“I'm not.”

“You are!”

“I just think you should sit down.” Erik moved around the island to stand beside Charles. He tried to put a hand on Charles's upper arm, but Charles jerked away.

“I thought you liked me.”

“I do like you.”

Charles sniffed and swiped at his eyes with his knuckles. “You don't,” he mumbled, startled and ashamed of his emotional reaction. “I came all the way here, but you don't even want to—”

“I'm not some sort of animal,” Erik snapped. “I can resist a drunk eighteen year old.” Charles took several clumsy steps back, keeping his eyes on the floor, and Erik lowered his voice as he said, “Charles, I'm just trying to—”

“I have to go to the bathroom,” Charles said, turning his back on Erik and starting down the apartment's only hallway. 

“It's the door on the right,” Erik said. “Past the closet.”

Charles trailed his hand along the wall as he felt his way along in semi-darkness. He saw the shine of a metal faucet and porcelain counter-top inside an open door and ducked inside. A brief scuttle of fingertips down the wall revealed the lightswitch; he flipped it, then winced at the brightness of the fuorescent light over the mirror. After he closed the door, Charles went to the toilet, lifted the lid, and unzipped his jeans. To keep himself from falling over or making a mess, he rested his left hand on the sink counter as he used to the toilet. Once he had finished, he zipped up, flushed, and began to wash his hands. The cool water felt good on his palms. He look at himself in the mirror and saw he was flushed. He could feel sweat dampening the back of his neck and his forehead. When he went to dry his hands, he lifted his arms and realized that he'd completely soaked through the underarms of his t-shirt. He considered taking the shirt off, but then it occurred to him that his legs were far more itchy and uncomfortable in his tight jeans. So he kicked off his shoes, then unzipped his jeans again and shed them entirely, like a snakeskin. That felt much better, and, with a yawn, he stretched his arms up over his head. 

He tilted his head from one side to the other and fiddled with the hem of his shirt, tugging it down over his exposed thighs. Charles slipped his index finger under the elastic waistband of his briefs and wondered exactly how mad Erik would be if he went back to the living room without his pants. The more Charles thought about it, the more he was certain that Erik wouldn't be mad, not really. That Erik couldn't possibly be _really_ mad about the possibility of sex, when he'd been waiting for Charles for almost four years. So Charles stepped out into the hall, leaving his jeans behind in a heap in front of the toilet. 

The door to the room across the hall was open and the light was on. Charles could see a bed and a nightstand inside. He stared for a moment, unexpectedly astounded by the fact that Erik slept—and, moreover, because he had a bathroom, that he must also shower, use the toilet, and brush his teeth. Occupied fully with this new realization, Charles stepped into Erik's room without thinking about whether Erik would want him there or not. 

The covers on the bed were rumpled and pushed halfway down, as if the occupant had left in a hurry. A large, dull-looking paperback about postwar American politics lay open and facedown on the nightstand, cracking the spine. Charles swiveled his head in a slow arc, taking in the bookshelves, the laundry hamper, the dresser. He sat on the edge of the bed and bounced himself up and down, pushing off the ground with the balls of his feet. The mattress was firm, but not too firm, and the springs didn't squeak too loudly. Charles fisted his hand in the sheet and resisted the urge to fall forward and bury his nose in Erik's pillow. 

Charles drew one knee up to his chin and hooked his other hand under his foot. The sheets were rougher than he preferred, but the roughness felt new and interesting between his fingers. His eyes searched for something to look at, but the walls were bare, the furniture was neat and unremarkable, and the only source of personalization was found on the bookshelf that dominated the far corner. So Charles heaved himself off the bed and went to examine Erik's books. The top shelves were stuffed with ponderous, boring history books like the one on the nightstand, old political science and physics textbooks, and one book about German Expressionism sitting next to a battered copy of _Drawing on the Right Side of the Brain_. The shelf at Charles's eye level was full of books about mutant rights; below that, the books were mostly cheap paperback thrillers and a few Penguin classics. Charles knelt to examine the very bottom shelf, where the books were stacked in piles rather than shelved neatly. 

“Charles?” Erik called from the hall. “Are you OK?”

“Yeah,” Charles called back. “I'm in your room.”

“What?” Erik stopped in the doorway and stared down at Charles. “Where are your pants?”

“I took them off,” Charles said. He pointed to the stack of books he was currently examining. “You have the Kitty Malone books.”

“Uh-huh,” Erik said, distracted. “I'm getting your pants. Did you leave them in the bathroom?” Before Charles could respond, Erik left the room and answered his own question. He returned with Charles's jeans held out in front of him. “Put them on,” he said. 

Charles rolled his eyes, but obeyed. “I didn't know there was more than one,” he said as he zipped up his fly.

“One what?”

“Kitty Malone book.” Charles knelt back down and retrieved Erik's copy of _Kitty Malone on the Prowl!_ “I only have this one,” he said, and held it up so Mr. Lensherr could see the cover. “How many are there altogether?”

“Eight,” Erik said.

Charles counted the titles on Erik's shelf, mouthing the numbers as he went. “You're missing one.”

“I know.” Erik took a step closer to Charles and stuffed his hands into the pockets of his pajama pants. “The second book is the rarest.”

“Why?”

“I guess they just didn't print as many.”

“Huh.” Charles turned Erik's copy of _Kitty Malone on the Prowl!_ over in his hands. The pages seemed more delicate than those of his own copy and the colors on the cover were gently faded. “What happens in the rest of the books?” he asked.

“Well, in the third book, Kitty solves a murder mystery.”

“No way.”

“Then later he becomes an international spy.”

Charles squinted up at Erik. “You're making that up.” Erik shook his head, and Charles turned back to the shelf. He replaced the first book and picked out the last one: _Kitty Malone and the French Connection_. The cover illustration showed Kitty in an alleyway, his back against a brick wall, trying to evade a pair of sinister-looking men. He wore a black turtleneck, and through the open end of the alley, the Eiffel tower could be seen. “Huh,” Charles said. He tried to read the synopsis on the back cover, but the words seemed to slip away whenever he tried to focus on them, as if they were determined not to be read. He gave up and put the book back. “Do you think Kitty is sexy?”

“What?”

“Do you think,” Charles repeated, “that Kitty is sexy?” He stood, but kept one hand on the bookshelf to prevent himself from toppling over. “That's why you have those books, right?”

Erik shifted his weight and shrugged. “I got them in college,” he said.

Charles pouted and shook his head. His hair fell over his forehead into his eyes, and he pushed it back. The room felt too small. He fixed his eyes on one empty wall, then tilted his head back to look into the light on the ceiling. “Are you my boyfriend now?” he asked. When Erik didn't answer right away, he dropped his chin and tried to blink away the bright dots swimming in his line of sight. “Well?”

“Why don't you come back out to the kitchen?” Erik suggested. “Have some water.” He turned and left the room without looking back, as if he expected Charles to follow him. 

Having no other option readily available, Charles followed. With some difficulty, he climbed onto one of the bar stools pulled up to the kitchen island. The apple was still there on the counter, but Charles didn't pick it up. Erik refilled Charles's water glass, handed it to him, and took a box of Triscuits out of the cupboard over the stove. He stayed safely on the other side of the island, opposite Charles, and watched as Charles spun the apple by its stem and sipped at the water. “Are you my boyfriend?” Charles asked again.

“No,” Erik said. “Not yet.”

“But you want to be.”

“I want what's best for you.”

“I'm so sick of what's best for me,” Charles mumbled. He folded his arms on the counter and laid his head down, hiding his face.

“I'm sorry,” Erik said. “But you have college to think about.” A touch of the classroom crept into Erik's voice, and Charles snorted. “Also, there's your family—”

Charles raised his head. “They won't care.”

“I doubt that.” Erik opened the box of Triscuits, took out two, and ate them. He left a spray of crumbs on the counter. “I'm surprised they didn't call for my resignation or pull you out of school.”

“I told you they don't care,” Charles said, then took a large bite out of his apple to ward off any more of Erik's thoughts about his parents. He picked up a stack of junk mail that Erik had left on the counter and flipped through the ad circulars. Beneath the flimsy booklets of coupons for things no one wanted, Charles found an L.L. Bean catalogue, which he perused as he finished his apple. When he was tired of examining sweaters, he looked around the kitchen for a trash can so he could throw out the core he'd been gnawing while performing a careful evaluation of the fleece pullovers. He was about to get down off his stool to search when Erik held out one hand, palm up. Charles handed the core to him, grateful that he wouldn't have to hunt for the trash in a strange kitchen. “What about your parents?” Charles asked as Erik opened the cupboard below the sink and threw away the apple core. “Won't I have to meet them?”

“You can't?”

“Why not?”

Erik wiped his hand off on a dishtowel. “Because they're dead.”

“Oh.” Charles discovered that the top of the bar stool swiveled, and braced his feet on the top rung as he pushed himself from right to left and left to right. “My dad died.”

“So I'd heard.”

Turning back and forth on the stool quickly began to make Charles dizzy, so he stopped. “There was a big accident at his lab.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It was sad,” Charles admitted. “But now, I don't know.” He stared down at the counter-top. It was blue-grey and speckled with white. “I was ten and now it seems like some other life,” Charles whispered.

“I'm sorry,” Erik said again. He reached across the counter and touched Charles's hand, covering Charles's fingers with his own and squeezing briefly before withdrawing. 

“It's OK,” Charles said. 

“Not really.” Erik's voice sounded curiously numb and muted, as if he were speaking to Charles from far away.

Charles tipped his head to the side and shrugged one shoulder. “Your parents, when were they... I mean, when did they—?”

“I was fourteen,” Erik said. He looked down at the counter, and Charles saw his fingers moving, as if he were counting to himself, rolling back the years. “No. Fifteen. I must have just turned fifteen.”

“They died at the same time?”

“Yes.”

“Was it a car crash?”

Erik grimaced. “Not exactly.”

“What does that mean?”

“Drink your water.” Erik nudged the glass toward Charles, and Charles obediently picked it up and took a sip.

“Was it a fire?” Charles asked, playing his fingers up and down the sides of his half-empty glass, smoothing away the beads of condensation that had gathered there. 

“I'd really rather not go into it now,” Erik said. “Maybe later.”

Charles drew a circle on the counter and watched as it began to evaporate. “I could just look in your memories and find out,” he said, and lifted his chin to make stubborn eye contact.

“You could,” Erik agreed. “I would prefer that you didn't.”

But Charles couldn't possibly let the subject rest. “I could know _everything_ about you if I wanted,” he said, and even to his own ears it sounded like a threat. He felt as powerful as he had when he'd been in Cain's head, shaking out old memories and finding precisely what he needed, like the triumphant conclusion of an attic search through years of accumulated junk. He could do the same to Erik, he knew, and Erik wouldn't be able to stop him, not really. From the look on Erik's face, Charles saw that Erik understood this as well as he did. He brushed Erik's mind with the lightest of touches and was buffeted by fear, grief, fury, and—above all else—resistance. He pressed forward, the mental effort he expended equivalent to the casual brushing of a spiderweb from his path.

_He is in the boarding area of an airport, right by the gate. On the sign behind the counter, there is a departure time for Israel. He gets a final hug from a sweet-smelling middle-aged woman. She presses a bar of chocolate into his hands, even though he thinks of himself as too old to be soothed by candy. He just turned fifteen._

“Stop!” Erik barked. Both his hands gripped the edge of the countertop so tightly that Charles could see the ridge of every flexed tendon in the back of each hand. “I told you I didn't want—”

“Did the plane crash?” Erik shook his head. “Why won't you just _tell_ me?” Charles pleaded.

“Why won't _you_ just accept that I don't want to talk about it right now?”

Charles glowered at Erik for a moment, then tossed his head. His expression softened, and he said, “They were going to Israel?”

“Yes.”

“Are you Jewish?” Erik nodded, and Charles fidgeted on the bar stool, tipping his weight from side to side so that the feet of the stool would lift off the floor and settle back with a muted tapping sound. “Huh,” he said.

“Is that a problem?”

“No!” Charles yelped. “It's just—I'm sorry that I always wished you a Merry Christmas!”

To Charles's great surprise, Erik smiled wide and let a brief laugh escape. “It's all right,” he said. His hand slid across the counter, as if he were reaching for Charles's hand again, but to Charles's disappointment he stopped just short of actually doing so. “You can wish me a Merry Christmas.” He shrugged. “I don't really practice anymore anyway.”

“Why not?”

Erik pulled his hand back. He took another Triscuit out of the box and ate it. Then he noticed the crumbs on the counter and swept them off the side and into his cupped palm. He went to the trash can under the sink, tipped the crumbs in, dusted off his hands, and returned to the island. But instead of standing opposite Charles, Erik took a seat on the empty stool beside him. Charles tried very hard not to stare. Instead, he kept his eyes on his fingertips, examining the dirt under his nails and the ragged cuticles on his thumbs. But his eyes kept sliding back to Erik, to study the broad line of his shoulders and the bulge of muscle at his upper arm as he leaned one elbow on the countertop. 

When Erik spoke again, he startled Charles out of his reverie. “My parents died in a bus bombing in Israel,” he said.

“Oh my god,” Charles mumbled. He shifted in his seat and turned his head to stare openly at Erik, whose expression had not changed. Questions began to take form in Charles's mind, lining themselves up to be asked: _Who had taken Erik in afterward? Had it been a suicide bomber? Were Erik's parents buried in Israel or in the United States? Had Erik seen the bodies and gone to the funeral?_ Charles hadn't seen his father's body before it had been cremated, and that made it harder for the scientist in him to accept that his father was gone for good. Some days he still thought it might be a tremendous joke, and that he would come home from school to find Kurt gone and his father reinstated in the study that, to Charles, had never stopped being his. Telling himself that he had wanted to know what had happened and that he absolutely wouldn't cry, Charles opened his mouth to say, “I'm sorry,” but what came out instead was, “I might need to puke.”

“Do you want to go stand by the sink?” Erik put his hand on Charles's back and rubbed in a tentative circle, as if he understood that the motion was supposed to be soothing, but wasn't sure he was doing it correctly. 

Charles took a deep breath. His stomach rolled and then, mercifully, settled into an uneasy peace. “I'm OK,” he whispered. 

“Would you like more water?” Charles nodded, and Erik stood, refilled his glass from the tap, and set it down on the counter. He sat back on his stool. “Better?” he asked after Charles had taken several cautious sips. 

“Maybe,” Charles said. On impulse, he slid down from the stool, put his arms around Erik's neck, and clung to him before Erik could make any objection. After a moment of frozen tension, Charles felt Erik's hands settle lightly on his lower back. “It's so awful,” he mumbled.

“What is?”

“All of it. Everything.” Charles exhaled a warm breath against Erik's neck. The effort of speaking made his stomach lurch, so he thought, _what did you do_?

“Do?”

_where did you go_?

“Oh.” Erik shifted under Charles. “A... I guess you'd call him a family friend. He took care of me.” The words were benign, but Erik's underlying animosity was evident to Charles. 

_you didn't like him_ , Charles prompted.

“No.” One of Erik's hands found its way to the back of Charles's head, where his fingers toyed with the hair at the nape of Charles's neck. “I got into fights, ran away a lot.” Charles saw the image of a man in Erik's mind, a handsome, calm, cruel man with eyes that seemed, to Charles, to be absolutely dead. “He was a mutant too, and really powerful, so he expected certain things from me—” Erik clasped Charles tighter, as if he were afraid Charles would wriggle out of his grip and run from him. 

Instead, Charles sank deeper into Erik's memories.

_The man with the dead eyes could make things explode by touching them. He wanted Erik to be just as powerful. He would make Erik wake up at four in the morning to train before school. Erik ran until he was exhausted or swam miles in a pool that was kept too cold. Then Erik would have to move metal with his mind: first, he lifted weights until he was able to move more than two tons at a time, and then the man had him move on to shaping the metal, forming delicate snares and jagged blades. Always weapons. When Erik did not comply satisfactorily, food was withheld. He would be awoken at midnight to swim laps. Always, at the threshold, was the threat of an explosion. “Like the one that got your parents! Right, Erik?”_

“I was angry all the time,” Erik said, forcing the words out from between his teeth. “I was so mad. At the bombers, at Palestine, at Hitler, at my parents for not taking me with them, at the way my life ended up without them. And then I couldn't care anymore. I couldn't care about Israel, I couldn't care about being Jewish. I started caring about mutants instead.” He stopped and clutched Charles tighter. “And then...”

“Then what?”

Erik sighed. “And then you showed up, didn't you?”

Charles thought back to his first day of high school. “You were pretty mad at me, weren't you?”

“Yeah. Pretty mad.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It wasn't your fault. And it got easier. Sort of.” Erik dragged his chin over Charles's forehead and Charles felt the burn his stubble left behind. Charles snuffled into the collar of Erik's t-shirt and wrinkled his nose at the smell of laundry detergent and sweat. “But, you know, I never really thought I'd ever be with anyone.”

“Not ever?” Charles lifted his head. Erik's muscles shifted beneath Charles's hands as he shrugged. “Why?”

“Lots of reasons.”

“Name one.”

“Well, I don't get along with most people.” One corner of Erik's lips lifted in a smile. Charles had to press his own lips tightly together to keep from kissing him. “I'd say that's the biggest reason.”

“You're kind of—” Charles tilted his head as he considered what would the most tactful way to express Erik's character. “You're intimidating.”

“You don't seem very intimidated.”

“Not _now_ ,” Charles said. To prove it, he nuzzled his cheek against Erik's, then dragged his lips to the edge of Erik's mouth. He kissed him sloppily, trying to prompt Erik to part his lips and reciprocate. Erik struggled to pull his mouth back, but Charles fought to continue the kiss, trapping Erik's head against his forearm to keep him from moving too far away.

“No,” Erik muttered as he tried to twist out of Charles's grip. When this did little to dampen Charles's enthusiasm, he reached up and grasped Charles's jaw with his thumb and forefinger and rasped, “Stop!” It was the tone one would use on a misbehaving dog, and it made Charles freeze, lips still parted, and loosen his grip on Erik's t-shirt. “I'm taking you home.”

“No,” Charles whispered.

Erik pushed Charles aside as if he hadn't heard his protest. He stood. “Wait here,” he said.

“I don't understand,” Charles wailed. “Why won't you take me seriously?” He stomped his foot on the tile floor, producing a weak little slap.

Erik looked down at Charles's feet. “Where are your shoes?” Charles shrugged. “Wait here,” Erik said, then went down the hallway and out of Charles's line of sight.

Charles sat down heavily on the stool that Erik had vacated, sending the legs squealing a couple of inches across the linoleum floor. He crossed his arms and waited, more determined than ever to argue with Erik's frustrating desire to avoid touching Charles in any meaningful way. So, when Erik returned—having changed out of his sweatpants into jeans and a pair of loafers—and dropped Charles's sneakers onto the floor in front of him, Charles braced his toes on the stool's crossbar and said, “No.”

“No?”

“I don't want to put them on.”

“Then you can go barefoot.”

“I'm not,” Charles said firmly, “going at all.”

Erik's nostrils flared as he exhaled. “Don't be a child,” he said.

“Why not? That's how you're treating me.” Charles waited for Erik to answer this charge, but Erik looked down and said nothing. “And we were getting along really well before,” Charles said reproachfully.

“There will be other times,” Erik said. When Charles looked skeptical, he added, “Believe me.”

“But why not _now_?”

“Because you're drunk,” Erik said. “You don't know what you're doing.”

“Shut up,” Charles said. He put both his hands over his eyes. “I'm not that drunk. Just shut up.” He teetered a bit on the stool and waited for Erik to yell at him.

But Erik didn't yell. “You're drunk enough,” he sighed. Charles peeked through his fingers and watched as Erik knelt down in front of him, picked up one of Charles's sneakers, and shoved it onto Charles's foot. Charles felt like Cinderella, and the thought made him giggle. Erik glanced up. He jerked the laces tight before beginning to tie a bow, and Charles winced. Then, Erik moved on to the second shoe, and Charles felt less like Cinderella and more like a toddler. “All right?” Erik asked once he'd finished. Charles did not reply, but allowed himself to be steered off the stool and toward the door.

Charles stayed silent as they went into the hall, down the stairs, and out to Erik's car. When Erik had to ask Charles which street was his, Charles only pointed. He felt stubborn and obstinate, but at the same time he wished that Erik would comment on how quiet he was, and then try to coax him to speak. But Erik stayed quiet too, and so they were quiet together.

Erik turned into Charles's long driveway and put the car in park without turning off the engine. He didn't pull up all the way to the house, as if he understood that Charles would want to keep Erik's presence a secret. Charles didn't get out right away. The radio was tuned to the local NPR station, which in the middle of the night broadcast long, slow symphonies without interruption. “I want to take you out sometime,” Erik said, staring straight ahead out the windshield.

“OK,” Charles said. After several uncomfortable seconds, it became clear that Erik wasn't going to continue, so Charles asked, “When?”

“Next week?” Erik offered. “Friday, for dinner?” Charles nodded, and Erik said, “All right. I'll be in touch before then.” He reached over, patted Charles's knee, then withdrew his hand. “Go to bed,” he said.

Charles got out of the car, but didn't close the door. He bent at the waist and leaned against the door frame so that he could see Erik's face. “Good night,” he said.

“Good night.”

“I'm sorry.”

“For what?”

“Everything, I guess.” The night was still warm and humid, and Charles lifted his shoulder to his temple to wipe away the sweat. He thought of Erik's parents in the Middle Eastern heat, getting on a bus, and maybe thinking of their son only moments before the explosion hit them. “Good night,” Charles said again, then closed the car door and started up the drive to his house. He heard Erik's car as it backed out, the tires crunching over the gravel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry to everyone who has been waiting on this! I hope it lives up to at least some expectations. I've been slightly better about posting art every now and then... so if you want to know if I've died in the coming months, I'd suggest checking with [my tumblr](http://countnocount.tumblr.com/).
> 
> More seriously, I feel like I should note that the bus bombing I reference is a fictionalized version of [this event](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dizengoff_Street_bus_bombing).


End file.
